Emerald Cities & Yellow Brick Roads
by sienna27
Summary: Universe E: Story 2 of 2. The sequel to Everything Happens For a Reason. This is the next stage of their lives. Moving on from the tragedy, Hotch's marriage falls apart as his bond with Emily takes his life in a new direction. Though the first story is a horror tale, I'd advise reading that before this, for this to make sense. You can always skim the icky bits of the 1st one :
1. The Good Wife

**Author's Note:** The sequel to Everything Happens To A Reason. Got this opening done SO much more quickly than I had anticipated! But I was very wrapped up in this world the last few weeks, so this next portion of their lives was quite vivid in my head. And I wanted to get it down, not just the words, but the feel of it, the melancholy, while it was fresh. And then it was done!

So obviously the opening here will not be as 'ugly' as the last story wrapped. They're still quite messed up, which is manifesting in different ways, but nobody's trying to kill them right now. At least not in this chapter ;)

And unlike the first story, which was just friendship, this one _is_ a romance and more of a relationship story than an event one. Though Hotch is still married right now, you'll see that's not going to last much longer.

This opens just over a month after we left them. I felt it was a good meaty gap to show the evolution of what's happened in these relationships. And I was going to do this chapter as one huge one, with three segments. Haley, Emily, and then Hotch. But then I realized, they each have a view point here that is very different theme'wise than the others. So I decided to switch it up.

This first one is just Haley, setting the stage for where things are now from her perspective. And then chapter two will be H/P together.

**Other Accounts:**

_**NEW WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_**I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10**__**th**__** note.**_

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

_**Tumblr: cmfanficprompts **__– Just as the name describes. Jointly run with Kavi Leighanna. _

* * *

**Author Prompt Set #24 (August 2012)**

Author: Stewart O'Nan

Title Challenge: The Good Wife

* * *

"_I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together." ―__ Lisa Kleypas, __Blue-Eyed Devil_

"_There's nothing heroic about what I do. It's dirty work." _-_Trollhunter_

* * *

**The Good Wife**

"Aaron? Aaron? Aaron!? Did you HEAR me?"

Aaron's head snapped up from his barely touched plate of food . . . his eyes were blank as they shot across the dining room table to lock onto his wife's. Haley's fingers tightened around the fork in her hand.

And then his voice came back sounding flat, and slightly confused. Like he didn't know what he was doing there.

"What did you say?"

Attempting to ignore the growing ache in her stomach, Haley repeated her question for a fourth time.

"I _said_," she spoke slowly, trying to keep any tone out of her voice, "Are you done eating? If you don't like the chicken, I can make you something else."

Though she kept putting food in front of him every morning and every night, his appetite had been practically non-existent since he'd returned home. But he didn't seem to be losing any weight . . . which was a little odd given how little food he seemed to be consuming . . . so she wasn't 'nagging' him about it just yet. In actuality, she was trying not to nag him about _anything_.

She was letting everything slide.

All of it, all of the little domestic back and forth, it seemed so small and petty right now. Because the man sitting across from her, wasn't the same man that she had married. He wasn't even the same man that she had been contemplating leaving for the last two months.

This man was a stranger.

Case in point, rather than acknowledging his complete distraction with some focused effort now at actual 'engagement' in conversation, instead she just watched as he slowly shook his head. And then he responded in the same distant tone, "no, no thank you. The chicken was fine." Then he pushed back his chair while adding softly.

"I'm going for a drive."

That was all he said. Not _"goodbye,_" or _"see you later_," or "_back by ten_." Just, "_I'm going for a drive."_

It was a phrase that she had heard probably thirty or forty times over the last few weeks.

Almost every other night after dinner, and often in the wee hours of the morning . . . _I'm going for a drive._

But he never told her where he went.

So she sat there, her fingers clenching into the beige tablecloth as he walked out without another word. Then she heard him grab his keys from the dish in the front hall . . . open the door . . . and pull it shut.

He was gone.

She pushed her own half empty plate back, and put her head down on the table.

This was their life now . . . strangers passing. It was like living with a border . . . or a teenager. He was quiet and detached. And though her husband had never been "chatty," even in the early years, now he didn't talk about anything with her. Ever.

She had started to miss the fighting.

At least then they were communicating . . . badly, but still, it was something. An acknowledgment that their marriage was still made up of_ two _people, and not just her alone trying to make it be something that it wasn't.

Real.

And she had admittedly thought about saying something to try to get a rise out of him. But she didn't have it in her to pick a fight with him. He had been through far too much trauma for her to play games just for her own selfish purposes.

It would be petty . . . and cruel.

So though their most recent method of communication . . . arguing . . . was now shut down, and the 'loving and affectionate' portion of their interchange had faded some months ago, she was trying . . . somewhat pathetically . . . to keep their marriage limping along anyway. She wasn't quite sure why . . . habit maybe. Or maybe she just felt like a complete bitch even considering leaving him in the state that he was. Again, it would be cruelty.

And also . . . people would judge her.

It wasn't a primary concern, but she couldn't deny that it wasn't one that had crossed her mind. Nobody wanted to be 'that' person.

The one that can't hack it when they got to the 'for worse' portion of the vows.

Not that that's what had happened, they had reached the 'for worse' portion the day Aaron started at that God forsaken unit. But outsiders didn't see things like that . . . the real complexities of a marriage. All they would see is the superficial, that he suffered a terrible trauma . . . and she cut and ran.

She would be the bitch . . . and he would be the victim.

And perhaps there would be a sliver of truth to that statement . . . or at least there would be if she left him right now . . . but truth was a subjective thing.

Everyone had their own.

And the truth . . . as Haley saw it . . . was that their marriage had been disintegrating for many years. Though she also knew that Aaron's truth . . . if he chose to open up again and discuss such things . . . would be that their problems didn't extend back that far. He'd probably just say that they'd been having problems since the holidays. That things hadn't gotten REALLY bad, until spring.

He would be wrong.

But regardless of the past . . . and whose truth was right . . . the present was at a standstill. Basically their entire relationship . . . such as it had become since his return . . . was now just her asking him a mindless series of questions. She would ask them over and over, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice, until he finally noticed that she was talking. And then he would turn to her with that blank expression . . . the thousand yard stare . . . and she could see it shift, see _him_ for just a moment.

And then he would disappear.

His efforts to focus were limited to her presence in that _exact_ moment in time. He would concentrate on her just long enough to process the words that she'd said, and to deliver the appropriate . . . or at least, 'on topic' . . . response.

Then he would drift off again.

And even if the depth of her feelings for him weren't what they once were . . . back in the early days when he was her everything, and all they had was the future . . . his behavior, his _distance_, was still a REPEATED kick in the gut.

Not that she felt that he was _trying_ to hurt her, or even that he was really even aware that he WAS hurting her. Neither of those points were the issue at hand. The real problem . . . the essence of why she cried herself to sleep . . . was because he just didn't seem to care either way. He had just wandered off and left her.

And with every day that passed, it seemed less likely that he was coming back.

But still, she kept trying to reach him. With every question she asked, she would pray for SOME level of engagement. Some acknowledgement that he wanted to at least try, if not to make things like they were before . . . that ship had long sailed . . . but to at least regain SOME intimacy to their relationship.

But it never happened.

It had been four weeks and three days since his abduction . . . and he still hadn't come home. Not really. Most of him was still off somewhere else.

Somewhere dark.

And he was hurting, and he was in pain, and she didn't know how to help him. But even worse than that . . . she knew that he didn't even want her to try.

He just wanted her to leave him alone.

But she couldn't do that. And that was because of Jack. Because she could see that with Jack at least, Aaron _had_ been trying to reconnect. And that's why it was so obvious that he was not making the same effort for her. Because his behavior with their son demonstrated that he WAS capable of remembering his place in the family. Or at least that he HAD a family.

Or at least a son, if not a wife.

Not that he'd really gotten back to even his 'daddy' role yet. But again, he was trying. He was trying so hard.

So hard that it broke her heart.

He still hadn't been cleared for active duty, so he'd had almost four full weeks to work on becoming daddy again. And the first few days that he was back home, she would see him sitting down on the living room floor with Jack. Him still covered in bruises, and wounds that hadn't healed. His hands shaking as he helped their son stack up his blocks, and then the pain on his face when that sweet little boy would laugh and clap his hands as they fell to the ground.

And Aaron would try so hard to smile at his antics . . . to be happy in the joy on their son's face . . . but she'd see that the smile came with a price tag.

His eyes would start to water.

And that's when Haley's would too. And that was always the time when she stepped in, clapping her hands loudly about lunch or snacks, or just taking a walk. Anything to distract her family before the breakdown hit.

After a few days of that terrible, painful, awkwardness . . . Aaron stopped trying to play with their son. He stopped trying to be 'silly daddy' anymore.

Silly daddy had gone away.

But it was clear that Aaron . . . though he seemed to have given up on their marriage, at least from her perspective . . . was not going to give up on their son. So by the end of that first week, he'd regrouped. He found a new approach to 'quality time.'

One that seemed to be working for him so far.

He would go to Jack when he was sleeping. Every night, hours after she put their son to bed, Aaron would go to the nursery. And he would sit there in the glider holding Jack as he slept. He never said anything . . . or at least she never heard him say anything when she listened at the door . . . he just sat there stroking Jack's hair and rubbing his back.

Sometimes he would start crying.

But he was getting better about that. The last two weeks when she'd watched them discretely through the crack in the door, her husband had seemed, not happy, but . . . at peace. So his connection with his child . . . though perhaps not quite what it once was when they could play blocks on the floor, and laugh together at cartoons . . . at least EXISTED.

It was more than she could say for his connection with her.

Since he'd come back from Louisiana . . . and this was again, coming up on five weeks now . . . he'd barely spoken to her, let alone touched her. And there was no 'midnight sleep cuddling' like he was doing with Jack.

She definitely would have known if there had been.

But it was kind of hard to cuddle with someone that had somehow managed to put a three foot gap between them, when the mattress was only five feet wide. And when he came to bed . . . which was always well after she did, clearly hoping that she'd already be asleep . . . he would roll over to the very edge of the mattress. His back would be to her.

It was obvious that he was trying to avoid ANY sort of physical contact.

And then when he left the house in the mornings for therapy or whatever . . . most of his schedule was a mystery to her . . . after he had his coffee, and ignored the toast and eggs, he would give her a perfunctory kiss goodbye before he left for half the day.

But these weren't like his old kisses goodbye . . . these were just on the cheek.

Before he'd always kissed her on the lips.

And of course there was never a kiss hello . . . not one since he'd been home. And she had known that that meant something. It had taken her a little while to work it out though . . . perhaps Aaron and all of his psych classes would have figured it out a bit faster . . . but all she had to draw on were her own instincts. And after a while she'd deduced, that the reason that he never kissed her hello, was because he was never happy to see her. And the afternoon that realization came to her, she locked herself in the bathroom.

Then she cried for an hour.

Because even when they were fighting, the 'kiss hello' had been maintained. But perhaps that was partly habit more than anything. After all they'd been doing the same routine for nearly twenty years, he walked in the door, he pressed his lips to hers . . . she pressed her lips to his.

They kissed hello.

That was just being married. But now that routine was broken.

And he was showing no interest in resurrecting it.

Not that she was sure that she wanted him to, but she just wanted to not be ignored. To not be an afterthought.

Or worse . . . no thought at all.

And in bed, as she lay there staring up at the ceiling, remembering their life before . . . back when she was happy and her husband adored her . . . sometimes she'd notice that Aaron's shoulders had begun to shake.

He was crying.

And she would feel her heart twist, and she'd reach for him . . . try to comfort him as a good wife should . . . but he'd bolt from the bed.

Before she could blink the tears from her eyes, he'd have disappeared into the bathroom. And when he came out he'd start pulling on his sweats and sneakers and murmur that he was "going for a drive." Then he'd take his gun from the safe . . . and walk out the door.

He wouldn't return until after dawn.

So needless to say, with that now being a 'normal' night for them, their sex life was pretty much non-existent. Six days after he got him, they tried to make love. That was the only night that he had kissed her, _really_ kissed her, since before he'd gone away.

But the kissing started off somewhat desperate, sort of like he was, 'sharing his intentions.' But he just couldn't put his desires into words.

Or perhaps he just didn't want to.

Either way though, she had missed him, and not just emotionally . . . but physically too. By that point they hadn't made love in almost three weeks. So she closed her eyes and tried to pretend. She tried to pretend like things were back when he adored her.

But they weren't.

Even his kisses were wrong. As things moved along, they become gentler, less desperate, but there was no real affection . . . they felt perfunctory.

Like that was just a step in the process.

And even when they had reached the point where she was LITERALLY joined together with the man that she still called her husband, she felt absolutely no emotional connection with him. Her eyes had begun to burn as she realized that it was like he was just doing it because he felt as though he had to. Like it was on a chore list that he'd just found.

Take out the trash. Check.

Pick up the socks. Check.

Screw the wife. Check.

And she knew what a hard time he was having, how much he was hurting, so she tried so hard not to take it personally . . . but she did. Because she just couldn't imagine a more PERSONAL act, than the one that he clearly had no interest in engaging in, with her.

Still though they had continued on.

Though as she thought back, she remembered that even the earlier foreplay wasn't his usual. Usually he lingered from place to place, his hands and mouth going everywhere. And though she knew that was the alpha in him marking his territory, she'd always found it incredibly hot. Even after they'd begun fighting, on their better days, when they did make love, he still put the same zealousness into every coupling. Aaron had always been an excellent lover.

And she was going to miss that.

Hell . . . she bit her lip . . . she already did.

Because that night that they had tried to have 'relations' as couples do, his attention to the usual details was lacking. It was basically just a little here . . . a little there, and then him checking to make sure that she was ready for him to enter. That's when she had realized that sex was something on the chore sheet. When he'd assessed her nether regions like he would a bathtub full of water.

Just poking in his finger to see if it was ready.

It was humiliating.

That was the point where she'd accepted that there would be no great emotional reunion from the act. But still, humiliating or not, she hadn't wanted to stop. Some part of her still thought that maybe it would get better, that if they continued on, that maybe he would remember that the act was supposed to mean something more. And if nothing else, as she pushed down her sadness, and her grief, she told herself that she could just enjoy the pleasure of the process.

It had been too many weeks since pleasure had been a solo activity.

But then she screwed up.

When she'd felt that exquisite pressure beginning to build, she'd started to forget the life that she was now leading. That this wasn't making love with her husband . . . she was just having sex with the man who shared her name. And as she began to let herself go, she'd pulled him close and told him how much she missed him . . . and then she kissed one of the bright red scars on his chest.

One of the new ones.

And that was the end of that.

He'd immediately stopped moving, his entire body completely frozen, hovering on top of her. And though she tried to apologize . . . she really should have known better . . . he didn't even acknowledge that she'd spoken. After a few seconds of him taking slow breaths, he began moving once more. And though they did finish to climax . . . he didn't kiss her again.

He didn't even look at her again.

His jaw was tight and his eyes were somewhere over her shoulder . . . the act had ceased being anything even REMOTELY intimate. At that point it wasn't even just sex, it was simply completion of a biological imperative.

They'd simply gone too far to stop . . . they were now just completing 'a fuck.'

And eight strokes later . . . she was counting even as her orgasm built, and the tears pooled in her eyes . . . he came silently.

So did she.

They were still for a moment, breaths panting, joined together as they had been a thousand times before.

And then he rolled off her.

He was pulling on his clothes before she even processed what was happening. And as she clutched the sheet to her chest and began to sob, "Aaron, _please_," he was unlocking his gun and grabbing his sneakers.

And then he was gone.

He didn't come home until eight am.

They never spoke of what happened . . . and they hadn't made love again. Sometimes she wondered if they ever would. She wanted to, just one last time before it was all over. But she wanted it to be one last time like it used to be. And that was probably a foolish wish. Because making love to Aaron had only been as amazing as it was, because they loved each other . . . and they were happy.

And they weren't happy anymore.

She wasn't even sure if they loved each other anymore. Not like that anyway. At least it wasn't that way for her . . . and she very much doubted it was for him.

And that was because, though she never asked him where he went when he disappeared in the night, or where he had been spending his days between breakfast and whenever he came home . . . she had a theory. A theory that had formed after she'd begun to find lipstick on his shirts.

And once on his pants.

And though she didn't really believe that he'd actually begun an affair . . . at least not a sexual one, Aaron wasn't the type to go looking for another warm bed . . . still, she knew in her bones. She was being replaced.

By Emily.

That was the only person it could be. It was the only person he spoke to now, who could illicit ANY genuine emotional response from him. And that's how Haley would know it was her on the phone.

His phone.

A phone that would ring at all hours.

As soon as he picked up, Aaron's tone would immediately soften and become more intimate. And as he started off to his den to shut the door behind him, Haley would feel a pain in her breast as she watched him walk away, remembering that he once spoke to her that way too.

Now he barely spoke to her at all.

And though part of her thought that there should be some bitterness or resentment over what was happening to her marriage . . . that she should at least hate this woman for coming between them . . . there was nothing like that. Though she felt pain and regret . . . and yes, jealousy too . . . it wasn't really Emily that was coming between them. She was just the last act in this play. The splintering of their relationship had begun years ago.

It was his job. That terrible job.

And his devotion to it.

The abduction . . . and the resulting bond that Haley knew Aaron now shared with Emily . . . it was almost incidental. If anything that horrible act had _prolonged_ their marriage, rather than being the impetus to destroy it.

Again, she just couldn't leave him the way he was.

She just pictured him sitting in the living room, alone in the dark, staring off into space. And every time that image came to her, she would push down her own unhappiness, and her own despair, and she would tell herself once more.

Not yet.

It's not time.

You need to stay a little longer.

Of course Aaron never told her why he stared into the dark. What it was he was seeing, or what it was that had happened up on that mountain. In the hospital he had shared . . . when she pushed . . . only the very basic of facts about that terrible day.

A wrong turn, a down tree, a capture . . . and an escape.

But even then, she'd known that was the Disney version. The REAL version, or at least much larger chunks of it, she learned from the news coverage. The excavation of those tunnels, those piles of tortured and mutilated bodies . . . those poor butchered people that they'd brought out alive. It had been the top story for the entire week that she was home alone with Jack. And she watched all of it. Every segment she could find.

And she cried.

She cried for those people, and she cried for her husband . . . and she cried for Emily. Not just for the physical and emotional trauma that they had suffered on that trip, but because her husband and that nice woman she'd once laughed with in a bar, they had CHOSEN to live in that world. That terrible world of death and torture and brutality, it was their life . . . and she would never understand why. But some small part of her was starting to see a way out of her own misery. That it was likely . . . given his behavior so far . . . that Aaron would continue to gravitate towards Emily. Perhaps someday he might even fall in love with her . . . or maybe not. Maybe they would only ever be friends. Or whatever they were now.

Haley didn't much care either way about the nature of their relationship. Truly. All she cared about was Aaron finding someone else to sit with him in the dark.

And then she could go.

And she could go with a clean conscience.

It would still hurt, and she would still be jealous of this woman that was already taking her place . . . and maybe she'd even be angry too. Angry that even in their best days, that Aaron had never trusted her with his secrets.

Or his tears.

But she told herself that all of that would be preferable to the world that she lived in now. One where she was miserable and alone . . . even with her husband lying right beside her.

And as Haley took a breath and lifted her head from the table, she knew that eventually things were going to change. Whether she made the choice, or she let Aaron do it . . . their marriage was going to end.

It was simply a matter of time.

* * *

_A/N 2: I really liked being able to put in a whole chapter on Haley. Probably the only one she'll get here all her own. But I thought she was the perfect person to convey events to this point. Objectively seeing Hotch's behavior. And to show how terrible their home life has become. Because as she'd said, Hotch probably wouldn't even see it that way. Not how it really is. He's just isolated his worlds, and is dealing with his own shit the best he can. He's not seeing how he's hurting her. And I never hated Haley. I've said this in Girl proper, she got the raw end from the writers. And that was the writer's strike that year they broke up so I'm sure that was part of it. Her leaving 'out of the blue' wasn't so out of the blue. But that season they stopped focusing on their home life as a key element of the show, so Haley didn't get any sympathy from anyone. It was just like 'she's being a bitch busting his chops and then she walks out.' But she wasn't a bad person. She never kept Jack from him even in canon, so here I thought would be a place to let her 'better character' shine through. And obviously somebody like Hotch wouldn't have fallen (and stayed) in love with this woman if she didn't have something going for her besides a pretty face. So here she's the dutiful wife, trying to hold together something that she no longer wants, that's killing her as it completely implodes around her. And she's doing it for him, because she still cares and doesn't want to leave him until she's sure that he'll be all right. _

_Also with this turn of events, I just really enjoyed digging into the raw pain of intimacy becoming a chore, and then his fucked up psyche, pushing it even lower than that. It's a relationship disintegration I would never write for Hotch and Emily (or I can't envision a storyline for them that it would be) but seemed very 'real' to the situation._

_Lastly, I had the damndest time trying to settle on a title here. Because this will be a long story, with different arcs to it, and I needed something that would bridge all of that out of that terrible ugliness we just left in the other story. But then once I thought of this one 'emerald cities & yellow brick roads' because it evoked everything I'm trying to do. Get back home again, get to the shining city, and all of the work it's going to take to get there. So just in case you thought it was a little esoteric, it does have a purpose :)_

_I am also done with the next chapter, all H/P, but I am TRYING to focus on getting a couple other things updated first. So I'll probably hold that one until next weekend. Or at least later in the week. We'll see how the muse feels about switching gears. _

_Thank you everyone for all the reviews on Reason, and for anyone following along with them here now :)_


	2. Holes In The Heart

**Author's Note:** Continuing now with Emily. You will find out how they're spending their days, and where Hotch disappears to when he "goes for a drive." _Spoiler Alert_: It's Emily's house! :)

This one also got very long, longer than the last, so I decided to give Emily her own chapter too. You'll notice very different undercurrents than with Haley's feelings at this point.

**Other Accounts:**

_****NEW WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10__th__ note._

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

_**Tumblr: cmfanficprompts **__– Just as the name describes. Jointly run with Kavi Leighanna. _

* * *

**Prompt Set #21 (May 2012)**

Author: Declan Hughes

Title Challenge: The Price of Blood

* * *

**Holes In The Heart**

Emily looked across the living room to check the time on the cable box.

7:43 pm

Hotch should be there soon. Not that he'd called to say that he was coming . . . she settled back on the couch and rolled her neck . . . it was just that he would be.

She knew it.

It wasn't that his routine indicated that he would be over every night, in fact it was more like four days out seven that she saw him in the early evening. And the fact that he'd just dropped her off at her apartment a couple hours ago . . . they'd spent the day at the National Gallery, the Monets relaxed her . . . would generally indicate that she wouldn't see him again until morning.

Or three a.m.

But middle of the night appearances were limited to their worst days . . . his insomnia, or her night terrors. And both were getting better on those points.

Or at least they were getting better at toughing them out alone.

But some days, like today, she could just sense when he would be coming over after the dinner hour. It was the way he touched her, or the way he looked at her . . . and there was definitely something in his eyes at the museum. He'd seemed sad.

Well . . . she felt a pain in her heart . . . more so than usual.

Perhaps it was the paintings. Museums were a comfort to her, the general aesthetics of the exhibits at the National Gallery she found especially soothing, but people had different reactions to art. Maybe there was something there that had bothered him.

She'd have to ask later.

Later after she'd given him his tea, and gauged his mood from being home. Some days back there were better than others. Of course some days were better than others, period.

That's just how this worked.

The Reckoning, that is. Because that's what they were going through, The Reckoning. Settling accounts. The quest for redemption, peace . . . forgiveness.

It was a long road.

And she still wasn't sure that they'd ever really get off of it. But for Hotch's sake . . . probably even more than her own right now . . . she was willing to keep trying. Not that she didn't want to be forgiven, that she didn't want to move on and be happy again, but it was too hard to think about herself. About what she had lost.

What she had done.

It was just easier to focus on Aaron. On trying to help him get better. Perhaps it was because her presence gave him comfort, and so many days now she still hated to be in her own skin.

Yeah . . . she swallowed . . . perhaps it was that.

But even that was improving somewhat . . . the self-loathing thing, that is. But that was only getting better because she'd finally accepted that if she was going to hate herself for what she had done, and hadn't done, then she was going to have to hate Aaron too.

And she wouldn't do that.

She couldn't.

But the connection between the head and the heart never had been an easy one. So she was still working on reconciling her view of Hotch's behavior, versus her view of her own. She was trying to filter the memories of _her_ actions, through a kinder lens. Or at least a more understanding one.

It was very difficult.

This process overall, the road out, it was all very difficult. And really, just plain hard. But it was also a curious thing. The affect it had on your views of yourself, of your family, your friends . . . your colleagues. It was all upside down, inside out. She kept wondering what this person or that person would have done if he or she had been pulled into the same circumstances that she and Hotch had been pulled into.

It was fucked up.

And pointless. It didn't matter what anyone else would have done, they weren't there . . . but it didn't stop her brain from going down that path.

Again . . . and again.

So she was avoiding her parents, and the team. But she'd seen everyone and talked to them all in person . . . her parents had even flown in from Europe to see her in the hospital . . . they all knew she was okay. These were just 'personal welfare checks.' Making sure that she hadn't blown her brains out or something.

Like she would ever do that.

Please.

But fine . . . she took a breath . . . okay, she knew that they were just worried, so she was trying not to be a dick about them calling. Though that didn't mean that she was going to talk to them.

She was doing all of this on her own terms.

So they'd call and she wouldn't pick up. Then she'd call back on whatever line she knew that they wouldn't answer. If they were at work, she'd call their home, and visa versa. "Sorry I missed your call. Yeah, I'm doing fine. Physical therapy's going well, might start back in a couple weeks, yada, yada . . . yada."

It was all the same bullshit repeated over and over . . . just spewed on different days, on different electronic devices. Basically she didn't want to see or talk to anybody from her real life until she was ready. The only exception was Hotch.

Aaron.

Mostly she called him Aaron now. And the more time that the two of them spent together . . . most of their days, and many hours of their nights . . . the more attached they had become to one another. And not just in the simple sense that as people gained a greater importance in your life, that your level of concern for them increased as well.

Their connection was more than that.

Their bond was unique . . . and unbreakable. At this point, all these weeks later, Emily could no longer imagine living her life . . . existing . . . without him near her. And she knew from Aaron's behavior, how he would come to her in the nights when he was broken, and the days when he was just sad, that he felt the same way she did. He _needed_ her.

They needed each other.

It was a degree of co-dependence that, though they had tried to hide it from their therapist, she had picked up on anyway. She had some "concerns" about it.

They did not.

Because with all due respect to Dr. Jablonski . . . their perky, ginger, ridiculously YOUNG, FBI therapist, seriously Reid looked like a senior citizen next to her . . . she didn't know jack SHIT about what they'd been through. All she knew were facts, and facts were nothing.

Facts didn't smell like decomp and sulfur, or taste like the sickening metallic burn of adrenaline surging through your body and soaking through your pores.

And it sure as hell didn't FEEL like fatty, torn flesh squishing between your fingertips.

So yeah . . . Emily's jaw and fist simultaneously clenched . . . Jablonski could suck it. Contrary to popular opinion, hers, their experiences were not "quantifiable" or "relatable."

And they never would be.

Feeling her anger rising up . . . it was an unwelcome, yet persistently resurgent companion since she'd awoken in the hospital . . . Emily closed her eyes and took a breath. And then another, and another, and then she imagined the sensation of Hotch running his thumb along the back of her hand. The rough skin, the soft touch, the faint calluses he got from shooting at the range, and how he could sit and stroke her hand for hours . . . just them sitting in the dark. Alone. And then she took one more breath.

And finally she felt calm.

Her eyes popped open . . . that was a sensory technique she was practicing to deal with her rage. Not a technique from Jablonski, one that she'd found herself. After they'd arrived home, (before they'd been given their official therapy marching orders), she and Hotch had pulled out all of their own books. They'd done all of their own research. Brushing up on everything that they already knew about trauma, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Acute Stress Disorder, Survivor's Guilt . . . you name it, they had bookmarked it.

The road to redemption was a spiritual journey, the road to mental health . . . that was a physical one. And neither of them wanted to end up riding a desk for the next ten years. Just waiting for their pensions to kick in so that they could kick off to a cheap condo in Florida, or some other equally hellish afterlife.

Maybe New Jersey.

And the only way around that bleak future . . . getting a PI license and taking pictures of scumbag cheating spouses, just to have a reason to get out of the house . . . was to get ahead of the trauma that they had suffered, before it began to cripple them.

But they had a specific time table to get things done. And it was a _hard_ table time table to follow.

It was a lot of pressure.

They were busting their asses. Trying to make sure that they somehow got a handle on things, before the Bureau decided that they were too fucked up now for field work. And given what had happened, their status now as 'victims of a series of vicious physical and emotional assaults,' and 'perpetrators of multiple (justifiable under the circumstances) homicides,' that was not a particularly hard bill of goods to sell. Because they were pretty fucked up.

And they were going to be for quite some time.

Perhaps always.

Still though, they didn't want to be benched. They wanted to try to go back to work again. It was part of the road out. Keep putting away the bad people. Keep making a difference in the world.

Or at least keep trying to get back out of the red.

Their karmic debt was large, and it would be awhile until it was paid off. Again, if ever.

So they made a pact . . . another one . . . that they wouldn't leave the other behind. That if one of them wasn't to the place yet where he or she could go back into the field, then neither of them would go. It was an incentive to keep walling up the dark places, to keep digging out these new coping mechanisms.

Neither wanted to let the other one down.

That was perhaps Emily's main mantra now. "Do it for Aaron . . . keep it together for him." It kept her going when she wanted to beat her physical therapist for pulling on her arm, or scream at the cashier for rolling her eyes at Emily asking for paper rather than plastic, or shove Jablonski's face into a plate glass window, just because she existed.

Again, her rage was a constant companion.

And it terrified her.

Hotch was the only person that she never got angry with, for anything. Of course they occasionally disagreed on things varying in importance in the grand scheme, but even then, her response was measured. It might be a mild irritation or annoyance . . . something normal . . . not the blinding rage she felt so often for the rest of the world. That's why a few weeks ago she'd taken to holding his hand when they were out in public together.

Keeping that grip was often what kept her anger . . . and her sanity . . . in check.

During one of their joint therapy sessions . . . they had those once a week . . . Jablonski had made note of their physical proximity on the rather large couch. How close they were sitting, that their arms were brushing. Then she asked them what that meant. What their relationship was now.

If they were deriving 'physical' comfort from one another.

After Hotch had . . . to Emily's perverse delight . . . broken out one of his scariest tones to inform their young doctor as to exactly where she could shove that asinine insinuation, Jablonski had blushed a deep red . . . it had clashed with her hair . . . stammered and then changed tactics. Biting her lip and squeezing her pen tightly between her fingers, she attempted to unrattle her very rattled cage . . . Hotch could rattle a rattlesnake . . . by switching to a much more false, 'folksy' tone. Asking then how _they_ would like to label the change in their relationship? Was it perhaps a "deep friendship?"

Maybe they would consider themselves "best friends" now?

It was a step up from the "are you banging your boss?" but not by much. Her regrouping was just so childish in its psychological simplicity, that Emily had tried not to sneer at the woman as she peered at them over her little tortoise shelled glasses. Emily wasn't sure why she disliked their doctor so much, but, she did. She really, REALLY, did.

She hated her guts, and she honestly couldn't figure out why. And it wasn't just the ASD rage, because she wasn't ACTIVELY pissed, at the ENTIRE world, ALL the time.

Just her.

This woman that she was forced to sit with three times a week.

But regardless of her feelings, Emily knew that she was stuck with her. As Hotch had wisely pointed out, and she had to reluctantly agree, they couldn't ask for a change now. It would just set their timetables back . . . they wanted to get reinstated as soon as possible . . . so they were doing their best to be "cooperative" in their sessions.

Cooperative was their code for 'not hostile.'

Some days that was a true test of strength.

Like the day that woman had asked the offensive question . . . and then the childish one. It had been an annoyance for both of them, a _second_ annoyance after the first where Hotch had shut her down so ruthlessly.

They were tired of being 'cooperative.'

So they'd just looked at each other and shrugged. Then they'd looked back and her, and Hotch replied for both of them with a dry, "sure." Jablonski had looked them over for a moment with that pen still digging tightly into her palm. Then finally she decided, well whatever she decided . . . probably that it wasn't in her best interests to push it, she seemed to be a little bit afraid of them, and Emily was okay with that . . . and scribbled something down on her notepad.

Then she had cleared her throat and said maybe it was time to call it a day.

Emily wasn't sure what the therapist thought of their dismissive response . . . nor was she even sure that she cared . . . but after they had left her office, on the ride home, Emily had actually given both the offensive question, and the childish question, some thought. Tried to figure out why they had been asked.

And why they had bugged her so damn much.

Finally Emily had realized that it was more of the obnoxious 'quantification' of their trauma. Jablonski trying to dissect and label all of their little pieces so that she could go back to the review board and say that knew what made them tick. What was going to set them off.

But again, she didn't know jackshit.

The woman barely knew what made a clock tick, let alone have a frigging clue what black hearted little demons were running around in their heads with pitchforks and flamethrowers. And Jablonski's instincts . . . her need to 'label' everything . . . it was wrong. And that's why it irritated Emily so much.

Because this stupid bitch just got it all SO wrong! She had no INSTINCTS at all!

If they had been 'screwing the pain away,' then Hotch would have been cheating on his wife. So the question was by design, an insult even to utter aloud. She was implying that he was a scumbag and she was a whore. _Clearly _they were going to be offended. Who wouldn't be?

She should have known better.

And a 'best friend,' though obviously an innocuous term, was something else entirely as well.

A something else, that didn't apply to them.

That label implied a history, a build to the point where they're arrived . . . but their relationship wasn't like that at all. And Jablonski knew it from her notes. They were one thing before they left . . . and then they were another when they came home.

What happened couldn't be named . . . and yet she kept trying.

She was a hack.

Perhaps, Emily thought to herself, that's why she hated Jablonski so much. She resented being accountable to somebody that didn't know what she was doing. Because Emily did, or course, respect the practice of psychology not only as a profession, but as a means of helping people cope with trauma. Hell, that was their job too. And here was this woman, this _girl_, like a year out of school . . . poking around in their soft spots. Checking off her little boxes, and telling them THEIR work, like she knew what she was talking about. Like she had a right.

Like she was _allowed_.

Well . . . Emily closed her fist . . . she wasn't.

She and Hotch had been sucked up and dropped into another world . . . one darker and more tragic even than that they'd inhabited before. It was a unique level of hell even for people who already had regular day passes to that universe. And there was no clear road leading them out of where they were now, no brightly painted arrows pointing out their path. So they were wandering together in the dark.

And Aaron was the only person that could help her find her way home.

He had become her confidante and her security blanket, her constant daytime companion, and her nighttime 911 call when she woke up screaming in the dark. He would come over and sit on her bedroom floor, holding her hand, while she cried herself back to sleep in the bed next to him. So yes, he was the Sandman too. And her rabbi.

And her priest.

How could you put a single label on all of that? You couldn't.

And you shouldn't try.

So they didn't. They just accepted each other in these new roles that they filled . . . and then they moved on from there. Hours and hours spent helping each other try to putty in the broken pieces. And then they went to physical therapy together, the shooting range together.

Even their individual psych evaluations together.

They had them scheduled back to back. First her, and then him . . . and then on their joint days, both together. And then afterwards, they'd go back to her place and have tea . . . or whiskey . . . and tell each other everything that had been covered in their private sessions.

And then they talked about everything that hadn't been covered.

Because of course neither of them told Jablonski everything. They told her enough for her to know that they were serious about their therapy. And on her more charitable days, of which there were few, Emily knew, intellectually at least, that the woman was just trying to help.

It wasn't her fault that she sucked at her job.

But really, combined, they knew more about real world psyche trauma and it's after effects, than that woman with her wall of 'junior achiever, I got my first post graduate degree at eighteen,' diplomas could ever even dream to know. She needed to get some years, and some field work (which was what differentiated her knowledge from Reid's, his wasn't just 'book learnin') under that slim little belt. Otherwise she was never going to attain a SHRED of credibility with people like them. Besides even that though, even if she had any credibility, or innate skills, there was another problem with Jablonski.

She was an outsider.

She wasn't, _them_.

Some days Emily felt like they were becoming a single entity. Hotch was the first person in her life that she could say, truly, that she had no secrets from.

She told him basically everything.

Not all at once of course, but just over the weeks they became more and more open. With them being benched, there was SO much time to kill, and so little of the world, and their old lives, that they could tolerate right now. It was all too hard. Too bright, and shiny. And dear God the NOISES . . . life . . . she'd never realized just how LOUD, it was. How painful it was listening to the happiness. Other people joking and laughing . . . now it was all just noise to her. Other people's happiness was noise. Aaron's voice was the only one that she found soothing.

The only one she wanted to listen to.

So they talked all the time. Because their therapy was projected as 'short term and intensive,' each session with Jablonski would cover new ground. So when they came home . . . back to _her_ place, Emily's conscience gently corrected . . . they would pick up wherever they left off back in session.

And then their conversations would wander.

She wasn't sure why that was, or how it had started. Maybe it was that they were searching for more common ground . . . more things to bind them than just this horrible event.

And they found them.

Similar taste in music, in food . . . politics. Books. Simple things, ordinary conversations, but things that they'd never really talked about before. Back when they had walls between them. And the more threads that Emily found linking them together, the more she would think, 'okay, yes, we're making progress. He gets me . . . and I get him. This bond I have with this man isn't just a fluke result of tragic circumstance.'

It's real.

_We,_ are real.

Some people would ask, "why do you care? What does it matter if they would have become, what they'd become, with or without the tragedy that they had endured?" And to those people Emily would say, "fuck you. The fact that you have to ask the question, shows me that you're not qualified to hear the answer."

That was pretty much word for word what she'd told Jablonski during joint session number three.

That was a bad session. That was the one where Hotch had to take her to the shooting range afterwards. She emptied five clips dead center in her dummy's chest.

There wasn't one wasted shot.

Then she went home, punched a wall, angrily scarfed down a pint of Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, and cried herself to sleep on a pillow in Hotch's lap.

It was three in the afternoon.

He was running his fingers through her hair, and whispering that it was okay. That everything was going to be okay.

He was lying of course.

But some days they had to do that. To each other . . . and themselves. Because the biggest lies of all were _always_ the ones that you told yourself. Emily's current whopper was one that she'd told herself yesterday morning.

That she wasn't falling in love with Hotch.

She was of course . . . her mind wasn't so fucked up that she couldn't differentiate between traumatic codependence and genuine romantic attachment . . . but at the moment that romantic attachment was, as a former vice president would say, an "inconvenient truth."

So she told herself the lie.

And she was going to keep telling herself the lie, as long as he wore that ring on his finger. Because as much as some days she felt like Aaron now belonged to her . . . that he should stay, with her . . . in her heart she knew that he belonged to someone else.

Someone that still shared his name . . . though she wasn't sure about the bed.

Regardless though, she wasn't going to steal another woman's husband. Well . . . she closed her eyes as she flashed on the feel of his hard body pressed against hers . . . not on purpose anyway. But you can't steal someone that doesn't want to be stolen. And Emily could sense from his behavior, how he would sometimes stare at her for no reason, or gently brush his fingers along her cheek and give her a little smile, that Hotch's affection for her was also shifting.

Though she didn't know if it had shifted as much as hers had for him.

Either way though, there were feelings there. She was sure of it. But those were _his_ feelings, and he needed to decide what he wanted to do with them.

Just as Emily needed to decide what she was going to do about hers.

Right now she was just shoving them back in the box.

But bottom line, whatever happened, or didn't happen, in the Hotchners' marriage . . . in their _bed_ . . . that was never going to be about his feelings for her. Or hers for him.

Not even a little.

That was all about them. And though Hotch didn't talk much about Haley beyond the abstract . . . which in itself, given how much he now shared, told Emily all that she needed to know . . . it was clear from his tone while speaking to his wife on the phone, that that relationship was on the edge. His words were always cool and detached, much like he spoke to Dr. Jablonski. And he didn't seek out his wife at three in the morning when his heart was pounding and his hands were shaking.

He came to her.

And though some little part of Emily . . . her conscience . . . thought that maybe she should ask him if he wanted to fix things with Haley. If he wanted _her_ help in _trying_ to fix things with Haley . . . she could never find it in her to open her mouth and say the words.

She'd probably choke on them even if she tried.

So she was just waiting things out. Waiting for that little gold band to disappear as she knew eventually it would. And then, if things between them were to evolve to a more _physically _intimate stage . . . their emotional intimacy was probably as close now as lovers anyway . . . then that would just be how it was supposed to be. That maybe that would be their reward for taking the hard road, for trying to settle up their accounts, when most people would just try to forget in a bottle.

A tiny sliver of happiness.

Maybe.

But until that day . . . Emily's hand came up to press against her heart . . . she would just take Aaron as she had him. Which was basically full time anyway.

And for now . . . she reached over to grab her blue fuzzy blanket and the remote off the coffee table . . . she was just going to huddle up and wait for Aaron to come see her. He'd be here soon.

She just knew it.

* * *

_A/N 2: So obviously Emily's state of mind here is very different than Haley's. Though they're both suffering some degrees of depression, Emily's pissed off at the world, and Hotch is the only person that brings her any degree of comfort. Whereas all he brings his wife now, is more sadness and grief. And Emily's demonstration that his relationship with her, emotionally and physically, is the polar opposite of his interactions with Haley, also shows that Emily too can see the writing on the wall as it concerns their marriage. Also though, you can see that they are not having an affair. And if you noticed the anecdote about crying herself to sleep on the pillow in Hotch's lap, you'll know how he got that lipstick Haley noticed on his pants._

_Jablonski, I'm picturing Alicia Witt of a couple years ago, but mousier with a bun, red strands hanging down, and the glasses. Reid without the field work, so all she knows are the things she learned in her books, and she can't even really 'handle' Hotch, let alone understand where they're coming from. So that's why Emily hates her. She's not jealous or anything, in case you were wondering. Hotch doesn't like her either._

_People wondering about PTSD, I don't think I'm going to go that route. Emily mentioned ASD, that's Acute Stress Disorder, a variation kind of on PTSD. Because PTSD diagnoses involves a certain series of events over a particular window of time to be THAT. Acute Stress seemed to be more sort of as a precursor. After trauma in the short term, if you work at it you can reattain some degree of normal mental health. Obviously if somebody out there is an expert that can clarify further, please do drop me a PM :) But I'm not going to delve too much into labeling their situations anyway. Just how they're coping with them. And these guys already have issues from their work so it's just a matter of folding these new traumas in under the old ones, and they're getting there._

_This relationship already is shaping up completely different than the other universes, which very much relieves/pleases me because I did NOT want a duplication here in how things unfolded. Simply by virtue of their complete rejection of labels both as lovers (Second Chances) and friends (Girl proper and Universe C) they're on a fresh path. But also a) the bonding trauma, their emotional intimacy level is leaps and bounds, and b) being on their disability leave for weeks with nothing to do outside therapy, and just killing most of that time together talking and just doing normal stuff like museums and taking walks and exploring little neighborhood shops, it's almost like 'dating' in a sense. And that's something they've never done in any of my stories. Because those versions are all the workaholic versions. But here they have no work, just time to fill. And if you're already bonded with someone, and then 'seeing them exclusively' for weeks on end, it would be normal for romantic feelings (if they were going to happen) to start to appear. But Hotch does still have a wife. For now. So we'll catch up with him, and see how he sees things, next chapter._

_Thank you everyone for the wonderful and enthusiastic response to the first chapter and the close of Reason :) Hope you like where we're going here!_


	3. The Street Where You Live

**Author's Note:** Another one! Wa Hooh! And now finally, after viewing him through the prism of the women in his life, Hotch himself gets to speak on his views of their world. And now that we're more kind of 'up to speed' on their lives in general, this chapter dials down the full narrative and will start the more usual back and forth, forward momentum of the plot. You'll be able to get an idea of where things are going.

And the title of this chapter, if you don't know it, is a song from My Fair Lady. The first time I heard it, (the lyrics a cappella without any 'fuss' around them), was an episode of China Beach. A very SAD episode, when McMurphy and Dr. Richard were supposed to get married. So they always stuck in my head as a wistful song. So the tone worked.

_Side note: China Beach, awesome show :)_

* * *

**TV Prompt Set #42 (August 2012)**

Show: One Day At A Time

Title Challenge: The Nearness Of You

* * *

**The Street Where You Live**

Hotch lifted his fist up and rapped three times, hard, on the bright red door . . . then he paused for two beats . . . and knocked one last time.

That was their code. So Emily wouldn't get agitated about strangers . . . or friends . . . at the door. This way she always knew it was him before she'd even started down the hall.

So after he knocked, he stood there for a moment, waiting, and listening. There was music on . . . U2, _In The Name Of Love_ . . . and then he heard the volume drop, and then Emily's voice.

"Coming, Aaron."

As he always did now when he first heard her after they'd been apart, Hotch felt a little of the tension leave his chest. A few seconds later there was a shuffling just on the other side of the door . . . then the locks being turned . . . and finally . . . her.

Emily.

His eyes crinkled ever so slightly.

"Hi."

"Hey," she whispered back as she reached out to touch his chest.

She'd started doing that when they were alone . . . it was how she said hello, by placing her hand over his heart. Then she would leave it there for a second as a faint smile touched her lips.

And he had started to feel a tug now when she pulled her hand away.

Like she had grabbed a string and it was caught on her finger.

And he knew what that meant, because when it happened, it caused a faint warmth low in his stomach and a slight humming in his brain. And those sensations were familiar . . . but it had been a long time since he had felt them.

For anyone.

And though he'd missed feeling this way, having something . . . some_one_ . . . to look forward to seeing, still, in many ways, these emotions were unwelcome.

Or at the very least, inappropriate.

Either way . . . welcome or not, inappropriate or not . . . as Emily stepped back, he moved forward, stepping over the threshold and into her space. And he stayed just a little too close, a little too near, while he pushed the door shut behind him. And while his senses were being filled with the smell of her shampoo, her fading perfume, and that unique scent that he'd learned belonged to her alone, he turned the locks. Before he was done, her hand was running lightly along his back, and she was asking if he wanted tea . . . or whiskey.

In the first days when they got home, whenever he came over, it was always whiskey. But now . . . as today when he heard the question being posed . . . more often it was tea. A couple of weeks ago . . . when they were out walking, they walked almost every day . . . she had bought a box of fancy herbal tea at some hippie store in Dupont Circle. That was the kind that she made for him.

It relaxed him.

And he thought about buying some for his own house, but he knew that the results wouldn't be the same.

It wasn't just the tea that he came for.

He came for this . . . his gaze dropped down . . . her in her silly pajamas . . . tonight they were soft and pink with little grey toasters on them . . . and her clean, scrubbed face with scars still fading . . . and then there was that touch.

Her fingers on his chest.

That he couldn't get anywhere else. And as she looked up at him with that faint smile . . . an echo of the one that she used to wear . . . he whispered that tea sounded good. And then he slipped his other hand into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a waxy, white paper bag.

He held it out for her.

"I brought you cookies," he murmured, "peanut butter with chocolate chips. They're from that place you like."

They found the cookies one day in the city too. A different day, in a different neighborhood. In the hours that they didn't have therapy, physical and otherwise, they spent most of their free time exploring different neighborhoods around The District. They weren't quite sure how it started, but it was something to do.

And the walking was good for his leg.

And he had driven into Georgetown specifically tonight to buy these cookies for her. He bought them because he thought that they would make her happy. And making Emily happy . . . as much as she was capable now of experiencing that emotion . . . had become important to him. Not just because of that string, but because it was a tipping point against his own, somewhat degraded, mental state.

Some days his guilt over this world that he had dragged her into, was nearly overwhelming . . . enough to make him feel like he was drowning. And so making her life a little brighter . . . even it was just with a cookie . . . was a tiny teaspoon out of that well of despair.

And again, it was something to do.

When she reached over to take the bag from his hand, he focused his breaths. They were slow, even . . . in and out. Once, and again. And then his eyes closed for a moment when she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered against his skin, "that was very sweet."

And then she tucked her arm through his . . . her good arm, he knew the bad one still ached by the end of the day, his leg did too . . . and leaning slightly against his side, walked him down the hall to the kitchen.

After she'd put on the kettle, and slipped the half dozen cookies out of the bag and onto the plate she used whenever he brought her a treat . . . he liked seeing that plate, it was a pretty blue with gold flecks . . . she took his hand and they continued to the living room and over to the sofa.

They sat down and his eyes automatically snapped over when he noticed the TV was on . . . though it was muted.

When he saw what she had been watching . . . sound or not . . . he scowled.

"You know that's not good for you," came the gentle scold as he picked up the remote and turned it off, "it's going to feed your nightmares."

The news.

She wasn't supposed to be watching the news at all . . . doctor's orders. Though it might have seemed rather ridiculous given what she did for a living . . . run down violent serial offenders . . . their FBI therapist said that as long as Emily was on leave, and that everything that had happened was still so fresh, and causing her so much mental anguish, that she was to try to limit unnecessary exposure to "potentially upsetting content." And there was little more _domestically_ upsetting, than the evening news.

Everyone knew that it was a snapshot on the misery of the human condition.

And though he didn't think much of Dr. Jablonski in general, or her therapeutic instincts overall, on this point, Hotch did agree. He didn't want Emily watching the news either.

Not yet.

And certainly not by herself to start.

Emily shifted slightly on the couch, pulling her bare feet up under her as she leaned over to place her head on Hotch's shoulder.

"I know," she murmured back, "but I wanted to try it. See how I felt. I mean," she cleared her throat, "we are supposed to maybe start back next week. And I don't want to burst into tears the first time I open a case folder and see a carved up body. I thought this might help me figure out, objectively, where my head is."

Hotch pulled her hand over and covered it with his . . . the two rested on his thigh.

His thumb began to stroke along her outer wrist. The skin was soft.

"And did it?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Emily gave a humorless snort, "big shocker, I'm still a mess. I had DVR'd the six o'clock news so I could kind of fast forward around. And I was basically okay watching the segment about the woman that got beaten to death by her boyfriend in PG County, a little weepy but not too bad. But then I totally lost it because a dog died in a fire in Ballston."

Her loss of emotional control was the one thing that she was really having a problem accepting. For years . . . her entire life really . . . she'd prided herself on her little boxes. They kept everything separated and compartmentalized. They kept _her_, in control. And now she was enraged, or crying, or crying AND enraged, at the drop of a hat.

It was . . . in a word . . . obnoxious.

Hotch was quiet for a moment, and then he bit his lip.

"A dog died in a fire? That is sad."

Of course the woman killed in PG County was sad too, but that was a bigger sadness . . . a true tragedy. But they had absorbed too much tragedy this month. They had reached saturation for human misery. So the dog was now a fresh soft spot, a new place for a new dig.

It was likely to hit her hard.

Also though, as Hotch had learned from their talks this month, Emily loved animals. The soft, four legged variety anyway. So regardless of her overall mental state, he would still rate her reaction to the story as normal.

And now . . . he thought with a trace of bitterness . . . it would just be nice if they came to a day where he wouldn't haven't to rate her reactions at all. Perhaps that day would come by Christmas.

Or maybe the spring.

"I know," Emily's lip came out in a faint pout, "they had the little girl on, and she was crying about her doggy. His name was Buster. And I just started bawling and I couldn't stop." Then she pressed her fingertips into his leg.

"What do you think that means?" She whispered, "Do think I can go back to work?"

If she started making a fool of herself at crime scenes, going off on people, or bursting into ridiculous crying jags, that was going to be the end of her career with the BAU. For her own pride, and the reputation of the team . . . and Hotch personally . . . she'd have to transfer out to a paperwork unit. Something boring and bloodless.

Something chained to a desk waiting for that pension to kick in.

The thought was enough to make her sick.

Hotch's expression softened as he turned his head slightly to look down at the woman leaning against his side.

She was staring at the darkened TV.

"I just think it means your human Emily. And right now," He reached over to pat the soft pink cloth covering her leg. "You're not on the clock. You're in your pajamas, watching TV like a regular person. Next week, if they let us back, it will be different." He shifted his arm to slip it around her shoulders, "you'll be in your suit, and you'll have your badge, and your gun, and you'll feel like you can do anything," he leaned over to kiss her temple, "and that's because you can. I'm alive," his voice started to thicken, "because you're amazing."

Emily winced as the hot tears flooded her eyes.

"Thanks."

Her voice sounded hoarse . . . understandable perhaps given that she was trying to swallow the lump now sticking in her throat.

But fortunately she was saved from the reemergence of her omnipresent tears, by the sound of the tea kettle beginning to whistle. Before she could react though, Hotch had patted her shoulder. His touch was gentle.

He knew it still ached.

"You stay, I'll get it," he said as he pulled his arm away and stood up.

Emily turned to watch him in his jeans and his blue polo shirt as he walked down to the kitchen . . . with just the faintest, 'late in the day' drag in his step . . . to starting making their tea.

He looked so handsome.

He always did. He always _had_. But she'd been noticing more and more lately, and she was distracted enough staring at his arms . . . though she knew that she shouldn't be . . . that it took her a moment to notice that he had bypassed the usual herbal tea that he liked. He was steeping the regular, earl grey. Her upper lip curved faintly.

Earl grey went better with peanut butter cookies.

When he was done with the non-fat cream and the sweetener . . . he knew how she liked it . . . he picked up the plate of cookies, balanced it on one of the cups, and walked back down to the living room.

Emily's eyes crinkled slightly as she reached out to help him put everything on the table . . . the cookies were about to slide off the dish and onto the floor.

Once she'd settled her favorite fancy plate . . . she'd picked it up in Morocco . . . in between their two mugs, she immediately snatched up a cookie and began to gobble one of the chewy peanut butter treats that he'd brought her.

She was suddenly starving.

Hotch's brow wrinkled slightly at Emily's enthusiasm for the cookie, and then a thought occurred to him, and he paused in the blowing on his tea.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" He asked slowly.

She'd lost weight since they'd been home. He had too . . . but not nearly as much.

And he could afford to lose more than she could anyway.

Emily shrugged.

"Um," she mumbled around her mouthful, "that croissant we split, I guess. I was going to order Chinese, and then, well," she swallowed before looking over at him, "I figured you'd be coming over, so I decided to wait and see if you wanted anything."

It's not that they had dinner together regularly. But again, she had just known that tonight he would be coming by. And usually if he came by in the evenings, it was between seven and nine. He'd stay for a few hours, they'd sit on the couch and talk . . . or not. Sometimes she just tucked herself into his side while they listened to music . . . it ran the gamut . . . or watched TV . . . anything without canned laughter, gunplay, or reality contestants . . . trying to use that time together to shore up for another night of insomnia and nightmares.

Often both.

And then at some point, Hotch would squeeze the hand he'd been holding . . . he always held her hand . . . and she knew that it was time for him to leave. So she'd walk him to the door. But just before he turned the locks, he'd kiss her on the forehead and tell her to call if she needed him.

And then he would go.

And he always would go between eleven and twelve.

Though she hated with everything good that was left in her, that moment when he walked out the door, she never asked him to stay later than he did. Because she knew that that was his time now with Jack.

The two of them in the nursery.

It had been her idea for him to try connecting with his son that way. While he was sleeping. And she would never upset that little routine that he'd been able to build.

It meant so much to him.

Though as Emily saw Hotch turn and look at her now, she was wondering what it was she'd just said to put that look on his face.

"Do you eat when I'm not with you?"

"What?" Emily eyes widened slightly in surprise at the question, "yeah, of course I do . . ." then she bit down on her lip, and tasting a crumb of peanut butter cookie there, her brow darkened slightly.

"No. No, I guess maybe I don't."

Seeing Aaron's brow pinch with worry at her response, Emily reached over and patted his arm.

"Don't freak out. I don't mean that I'm not eating _anything_. I know I had some popcorn last night. I just mean, I guess I didn't realize that I only eat _meals_, when you're around."

Honestly, she hadn't even noticed. But it must have been something that happened gradually. He picked her up in the morning, they went into the city and went somewhere for coffee. They'd people watch for a bit while they split a bagel or a muffin . . . sometimes a scone . . . and then they'd go off on their day.

Then at some point in the afternoon, they'd stop and get lunch, or at least a snack. Again though, they usually split a meal. The pain killers they'd been on for the first couple of weeks, had made them both a little nauseous. And nobody likes to eat when they're nauseous.

So after a couple weeks of tiny meals . . . and crushing depression . . . their appetites were not what they once were. Still though, food was fuel, and they needed fuel to build muscle and get back to work. So she certainly hadn't meant to start skipping meals.

But apparently she had been.

Because she'd only made the popcorn when she'd realized that he wasn't coming over. That was what she'd had for dinner . . . a hundred calorie bag of popcorn. And thinking back, she remembered eating an apple Sunday night . . . and then there was the day last week where she finished up the half empty jar of olives. She chased them down with a shot of vodka mixed in her diet coke. Her jaw twitched slightly.

Shit.

Now feeling some level of concern, her eyes snapped back over to Hotch's.

"Am I getting too skinny?" She asked worriedly.

Though she'd noticed . . . in an abstract way . . . that she'd tightened a notch on her belt, she hadn't really thought much about it. Her metabolism was such that she'd never had to think about her weight in general.

Even with her period, it never fluctuated more than a few pounds.

And remembering now that she'd had her period just last week . . . so with her feeling a little bloated anyway, she'd have been _less_ even cognizant of any weight loss . . . this could have been going on for a while.

Again, shit.

Hotch reached over to pick up Emily's hand . . . he held it up in front of her.

"Look at your wrist," he turned it slightly. "See the little nob there, the way the bone protrudes so noticeably, it didn't used to do that."

Seeing her eyes widen in alarm, Hotch dropped Emily's fingers. Then he dropped his gaze to the coffee table.

He scrubbed his hand cross his mouth.

"You _have_ to remember to eat Emily," he whispered, "if you keep this up, you're going to start losing muscle mass. And aside from that being the road to anorexia, you're not going to pass your physical," His eyes snapped back over to hers. "You get any thinner, you wouldn't have a shot of defending yourself in a physical matchup. You'd get snapped in two. They won't let you go back out in the field."

Actually, they wouldn't let _them_, go back out in the field. Them. That was the agreement . . . as long as they were both focused on getting back to their normal routine at work . . . they would go together, or not all. If she couldn't get cleared even for interviews . . . which she wouldn't if she kept up this weight loss . . . then he would be riding a desk as long as she was.

It would kill him.

But he would never say that aloud to her. Never add to her guilt. Still though, he could see from the glistening in her eyes, that she was remembering their agreement.

He didn't need to say anything.

"I'm sorry," Emily whispered, "I'll pay better attention. I promise. I won't screw things up." Then she tried to blink away the tears to give him a sad smile.

"How about we get a pizza? A big one, deep dish, with lots of fattening crap on it."

Idiot. All the areas she'd been worried about dropping the ball, her physical rehab, her rage, her crying jags, and she fucks up on the simplest thing.

Remembering to put food in her mouth.

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly.

"We'll get a salad too. I don't want you to be a skinny heart attack." He reached over to pat her cheek, "and eat your cookies." Then his hand fell away.

"I'll order the pizza."

Emily picked up another cookie just when he reached over to grab her house phone off the coffee table.

"Um, I have some news," he said some distractedly while scrolling through her contacts. "That's why I came over. I wanted to talk to you about it."

"What kind of news?" Emily asked, her chewing slowing as she looked over at him in concern, "did something happen?"

Christ, what else COULD happen?

"No," Hotch put the phone to his ear and shook his head, "not like that. It's about Gideon."

Just then the girl answered the phone at the pizza place and he put his finger up, mouthing, 'one second,' to Emily. Then he looked away for a moment while he put in their delivery order.

After he was done, he put the phone back down on the table, took a sip of his tea, and pulled his leg up slightly so he could turn and face Emily next to him.

She'd finished her second cookie, a quarter of her hot beverage . . . and now her brow was furrowed with confusion.

"So what about Gideon?" She asked, "Did he take off again?"

Though she'd seen him in Louisiana, she hadn't actually had any contact with him since she'd been home.

He was the one person that had not called.

But of course they'd never really been friends. Still though . . . her jaw twitched slightly . . . it was still a dick move on his part not to call. Not that she WANTED to talk to him . . . she didn't _want_ to talk to anyone . . . but still, a close colleague is nearly raped and BUTCHERED, and then is out on five weeks of medical leave, you could at least leave that person ONE frigging voicemail to check on how he or she is doing.

It was only polite.

Again though, Jason Gideon had never shown any interest in learning the definition of that word.

And realizing she was letting her general irritation with Gideon's bad manners, feed into her overall general disgust with the world, Emily took a breath. Then she refocused on Hotch.

He was talking.

"Uh," Hotch tipped his head, "not yet. He's still going into the office every day, and you know he's taken the team off on a couple of cases since we've been out. But he called me last night and said that once I'm cleared to come back, he's turning in his papers. He doesn't . . . well," Hotch sighed, "he said he can't do it anymore. And honestly, after what they saw down in the shafts, the mess they cleaned up for us, I'm surprised he's the only call I've gotten."

The difference between him and the others probably was, that Jason had been on the edge before that nightmare fell out of the sky. He'd already gone AWOL once before, and only came back so quickly because they'd been abducted.

He'd been forced to step up.

But now Hotch knew that with him coming back (hopefully soon) that Jason, again, wanted to step down.

And then apparently just step away all together.

Emily's fist clenched as her mouth opened . . . and then closed.

Her first reaction . . . the first words on the tip of her tongue . . . were fueled by her rage. But she was trying to get a handle again on thinking before she spoke. And the words that she wanted to speak, were to say what a selfish prick Jason Gideon was. That how DARE he cut and run now! Now, when Hotch wasn't even cleared yet to go back. And even if he _was_ cleared next week, it was unlikely to be for more than light duty initially.

Perhaps even part-time.

So Gideon KNEW that he going to need help with the unit! And STILL he was leaving!

What a DICK!

But then she stopped . . . because she suddenly remembered his girlfriend. And Boston. And she realized that she was being cruel. Because Jason had already paid his pound of flesh to this job . . . and he'd paid it in other people's blood. People that he cared about.

People that he loved.

So who was she to say that he owed more? That he wasn't done.

Nobody could decide that for another human being. You had to make your own limits, and you had to accept when you'd reached them. When it was time to walk away.

Apparently that time had come for him.

She was just praying that time hadn't come for her . . . or for Aaron. And with her concerns about him in mind . . . she knew that he was neither physically nor mentally anywhere NEAR ready to start running that boiler room again . . . she reached over and put her hand on his knee.

"What are you going to do?" She asked worriedly, "because you know you can't take on all that stress yet. Not by yourself. It'll set you back," her jaw tightened as her fingertips pressed into his leg, "it might even set you back for good."

It could break him completely.

"I know," Hotch nodded slowly as his hand came down to cover Emily's . . . he laced their fingers together, "believe me, I know. I'm not ready. But that's why I'm here." He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly before he took another sip of tea . . . he was a little nervous about this part.

About her reaction.

But after he put down his mug, his eyes tracked back over to Emily.

"Uh," he started slowly, "after therapy tomorrow, I want you to take a ride with me. We need to see someone. His name is Rossi. Dave Rossi. He was my chief when I first started."

"Sorry, wait," Emily cut in with a furrowed brow and a hand up, "you mean the_ book_ guy. _That_ Dave Rossi?"

The man was a legend around the BAU . . . but he was also a retired legend. He'd been gone for years. So what the hell was he going to do to help now?

"Yeah," Hotch nodded, "that Dave Rossi. He called me a few weeks back, you know after we got home. He'd seen me on the news and wanted to see how I was doing. And we talked a little and uh," Hotch tipped his head, "he mentioned that he might be coming back to the Bureau. Granted he didn't say that he'd actually filed his papers or anything, but it didn't sound like a casual remark either. I think he was serious, and that's why I want you to meet him. I think he'd be perfect for us."

If she liked him . . . _only_, if she liked him. Otherwise it was all moot.

"For us?" Emily's nose wrinkled in confusion, "like, you and me?"

"Yes," Hotch blinked and shook his head, "no, well, yes, but I mean ALL of us. The team. I think he'd be a perfect fit with the team. He and Jason never really uh, well . . ." he rolled his eyes slightly, "you know how Jason can be. And Dave's a no bullshit kind of guy so he tended to call Gideon out whenever he pissed him off." Hotch's expression softened slightly. "That's why I think you'd like him. And that's why I want you to meet him. Because I'm not going to ask him to come help us out, if you're not on board. I . . . well," his voice started to thicken, "I'm not going to cause you any additional stress Emily. And a new person that rubs you the wrong way, isn't going to help your recovery."

Emily stared at Hotch for a moment, then her teeth sunk into her lower lip.

It still tasted like peanut butter.

"Oh," she cleared her throat. "Thanks, that's very thoughtful of you." she whispered.

Hotch shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips.

"No, it's actually very selfish of me. I need you. I'm going to need you more than I'm going to need him. So I want to make sure you're that you're okay with this. Because if you're _not_, then this isn't happening," he sighed, "we'll just figure something else out. Maybe," he shrugged, "I don't know, maybe Morgan could step in."

"Oh Aaron," Emily immediately shook her head, "you know I love Derek, and he's certainly got the alpha thing, but I don't know if that's such a good idea. You know he's got a tendency to . . ."

And Hotch cut her off with a weary sigh.

"I know," his voice faded as eyes dropped to the carpet, "believe me, I know. It wouldn't be ideal. I'm just . . ."

And then his jaw clenched and he stopped talking . . . completely. And Emily was just about to prompt him, when his eyes snapped back up to hers.

There was a faint . . . unexpected . . . sheen there.

It made her heart hurt.

"I don't know what to do Emily," Hotch whispered as he tried to blink away the moisture forming, "I have a unit to run, cases to solve, people depending on me, and I don't know what to do. I don't even know if they're going to let me walk in the door next week. And even if they do," his jaw tightened as he shook his head, "I'm not going to be near close to a hundred percent. Physically or mentally. I'm going to need help. And no offense, but obviously you're not going to be able to shoulder any of that load."

He swallowed, hard . . . then his eyes fell shut again.

"Christ," he hissed, "I just don't know what the FUCK to do."

Six weeks ago, that was an admission that he would never have been able to utter aloud. Not to anyone, and certainly not to Emily. She was just one of his agents then.

Now she was something else entirely.

And also of course . . . he reminded himself bitterly . . . a month ago, he actually had his SHIT together! He could do his fucking JOB without a nanny helping him! But back then, even if he'd had problems, he still would never have leaned on anyone. That wasn't how he operated.

He would have just sucked it up.

He used to think that he could do anything . . . that he just needed the will to make it happen.

But now he knew differently.

Because now he was living in a different world. He'd reached his capacity on sucking it up . . . and he'd reached his breaking point. He KNEW, knew it in his _bones_, that he was right on the edge. His will was no longer an unbendable force.

He was on the verge of falling apart.

And Emily was the only person that he trusted to keep him together. To get him out of this, this . . . existence.

But he knew that that wasn't right.

That at the very least Emily shouldn't be the only name on that list. There should be two names . . . and she shouldn't be the first. The first should be Haley.

But it wasn't.

And he was starting to accept that it never would be.

Because as he looked over at Emily, with her pretty face, and the sympathetic tears in her eyes, he had no desire to go home and see the woman that was still technically his wife.

Good Christ . . . his chest started to clench . . . when the hell did things become so complicated? Oh right . . . he thought with another faint wave of bitterness . . . six weeks ago. His whole world had been spun on a top. And now nothing was the same.

And as he felt Emily reach out to touch his hand, he knew that it never would be again.

"Oh Aaron," Emily blinked back the tears that had begun burning at the pain in his voice, "it'll be okay." She shifted slightly on the cushion, leaning over with a slight wince to wrap her arms around his neck. And when his arm slipped around her back, she pulled him close.

Squeezed him tight.

"We'll figure something out," she continued fervently with a soft whisper in his ear, "I promise. Maybe this idea with Rossi, you know maybe it'll work out fine. And then you won't have to worry anymore. But even if that doesn't pan out," she patted his shoulder, "we'll find a way. I don't know," she gave a half shrug, "maybe we could all pitch in and help with different things." Then she tried to lighten the mood by leaning back to give him a watery smile.

"I can be designated bitchy person. I'll go to your Strauss meetings for you and make her cry."

Though she'd been leaving them alone since they'd come home . . . she seemed to be wary of the attention they'd received . . . they still hadn't taken any action over the threats that she'd made. But the threats didn't matter. Emily was no longer afraid of her. Erin Strauss no longer held any power over her at all. And her joke was not an idle one. Because if she came within an INCH of Aaron now, now after all that he'd been through, Emily would destroy her.

Even if she had to call in her father to do it.

And seeing the faint twitch of Aaron's lips as his hand slid along her side, Emily was pleased that she had made him feel a little better. But then suddenly she had an overwhelming urge to lean in just a tiny bit closer. To press her lips to his . . . to see if that would make him feel better still.

To see if that would make _her_, feel better still.

But she knew the urge was wrong . . . very wrong . . . so she pushed it down, instead taking one of her hands from his chest, and pressing it to his cheek.

"Aaron," she continued softly, "seriously, we crawled out of a hellhole together and then down a mountain and into a ditch. That was a situation that we had no business surviving. So we're not going to get taken down now by," she rolled her eyes, "_paperwork._ It's just a blip. We'll get through it. Agreed?"

These were the moments where Emily knew that their newfound 'codependence,' or whatever you wanted to call it, would ultimately be what saved them. Because they were tied together now. These obstacles, things that could break them if they were handled alone, could only strengthen them if handled together. She would keep his head above water . . . and he would help her to stop screaming in the dark. They would be even.

And they would be sane.

"Yeah," Hotch swallowed over the lump in his throat, "agreed."

For a moment, they stared at each other, both of them still with watery eyes . . . and then, though he knew that he shouldn't . . . that he was crossing a new line . . . Hotch found himself sliding his other arm around Emily's waist.

And then he was tugging her over, and off the cushion . . . he had never done this before.

_They_, had never done this before.

"Please," he begged softly as he looked down at Emily now sitting in his lap . . . her eyes were wide with surprise. "Please, just for a minute."

He wanted to see if it would help . . . and he wanted to see if she would let him.

And he wasn't sure which he wanted more.

"Okay," Emily's expression began to soften in sympathy as she nodded slowly. "It's okay with me, if it's okay with you," then she leaned her head against his chest and added quietly, "after all, you're the one who's ma. . ."

And she trailed off, leaving a giant pink . . . Haley shaped . . . elephant in the room.

Shit.

And though she herself froze up . . . Hotch did not.

Almost like he didn't care.

Instead he shifted her closer, and folded himself down, his arms wrapping around her like a glove. His head was now resting against hers, his cheek resting against hers, and she could feel the warmth of his breath . . . it was mingling with hers.

And then after a moment, their breaths synchronized . . . and they became one.

He didn't say anything, even as his hand slid around and began to rub a gentle circle on her stomach. It took all of her self-control to bite back the words on her tongue. The questions now forming.

_Why had he decided to hold her this way? Did he understand what it meant?_

_The intimacy of it. _

_And if he was doing this tonight, did that mean that he was ready to make a decision about what he was doing with his life? That he didn't want to be married anymore? And if so, did that mean that maybe he might like to change their relationship too? Did he want to do this all the time? _She bit her lip.

_Did he want to be with her, as badly as she wanted to be with him?_

All those questions . . . and all those answers. All those answers she was terrified of hearing. Because what if this, right now, didn't mean anything to him?

Or at least, anything like it meant to her.

And her fear of that pain, or being told that it . . . she . . . really meant nothing, nothing more than the comfort of a friend, was what kept her mouth shut when she wanted to speak.

And then his hand pressed against her stomach, and she realized that she was wasting the moment. And whatever it was, or wasn't, it was moment that she might never get back. So she inhaled deeply . . . taking that breath that they shared, and making it hers. And with the exhale, she felt the tension . . . the questions . . . leaving her body.

They were for later.

And they were ruining the now.

So for just those few minutes . . . as long as they were to last . . . she decided to pretend that this was all okay. That the ring was gone, that he really was hers.

And that what they were doing wasn't wrong.

It was another lie . . . another whopper. But again the whoppers . . . she rubbed her cheek on his jaw, feeling the stubble . . . those were the ones you told yourself. And she was very curious what whoppers Aaron was speaking to his conscience right then.

But she didn't ask.

It wasn't her business.

Then she shifted slightly, her arms sliding around his torso so she could press her cheek into the curve of his neck. He tucked her closer, tighter . . . and after a minute, she sighed.

She was beginning to feel something . . . not true happiness, not quite . . . but there was something there. Something that she'd been missing.

Something that had been lost down in the dark.

And she wondered if this was what Aaron felt when he was with his son. If this is what was keeping him going. Keeping him steady.

Was this why his self-control . . . his rage . . . seemed to be better repressed than hers?

Suddenly she was terribly jealous of that little baby boy. And she was terribly sad for herself. Because this thing that she'd just found again, this . . . feeling, it was about to be taken away from her.

And she didn't know if she would ever get it back.

Finally . . . as her eyes began to sting . . . his grip on her began to loosen. At least ten minutes had passed since he'd pulled her into his lap. And then he lifted his head . . . and that breath was taken away.

Her chest clenched.

"Thank you," he murmured, "thank you for that."

And then his hands . . . and his arms . . . and that feeling, they were all falling away. She was falling back into the dark.

And she wanted to weep.

But crying wasn't going to fix it. It wasn't going to make that little gold band disappear. So she pushed back her tears . . . or tried to anyway . . . to put her hand on the back of the sofa. And with Aaron's help . . . his hand on her back . . . she pushed herself to her feet.

He looked up at her, and she looked down at him. His eyes were sad . . . they matched the faint smile touching her lips.

"We can't do that again. Not until you . . ."

She swallowed the next word, realizing she was stepping into that bed that wasn't hers to step into.

So she started again, her breath hitching slightly.

"We just can't do that again, okay?"

Her voice cracked on the last word . . . she was amazed that she got that far. No matter how much he was hurting, she couldn't let him think that they could start doing that so that he would feel better. That he could have both worlds. One with the ring.

And one without it.

Because she was hurting too.

And to have him hold her that way . . . like she was all there was, and all he wanted . . . he couldn't do that unless he meant it. _Really,_ meant it. Because otherwise it was all a lie. And she would take the lie from herself.

But not from him.

From him it was a cruelty too bitter to bear.

When she saw then that his eyes had begun to water just as hers were, a tear slipped down her cheek. She could see the remorse on his face, the way his mouth was twisted with regret. But just when he went to say the words, she put her finger over his lips.

"Don't be sorry," another tear spilled over, "just be sure. And until you are," she shook her head, her words firm . . . and hard, "don't do it again."

Then she waited until he had nodded, before finally pulling her hand away.

"I'm going to go wash my face," she managed to pull out another faint smile. It was small and watery . . . but it was for him. So she was able to hold it for a moment.

"And I'm not angry," she added softly, "I promise. I would tell you if I was. You know that I would."

And with that . . . she walked away.

The smile had fallen before she turned.

Hotch twisted to watch Emily head down towards the little bathroom off the front hall. When the door clicked shut, he turned back around and scrubbed his hands down his face.

GOD! What the FUCK was he doing?!

He hadn't meant to hurt her with what he'd done . . . it hadn't even occurred to him that he would. It was something he did with Jack . . . something that made him feel grounded.

Connected.

Better.

And he'd just wanted to see if he would feel the same if he held Emily that way. Of course he'd known it was wrong. The act might have been simple, but without any familial connection . . . she wasn't a child . . . the innocence of it was lost.

Then it had begun to attain a true intimacy that he hadn't expected . . . but that hadn't bothered him either. Even once he'd realized that the exercise was one perhaps better tried with a wife, and not . . . his breath hitched . . . well, whatever Emily was.

And his eyes started to water again as he pondered his relationships with these two very different women. He hadn't wanted to try that with Haley, because he hadn't wanted that connection with her. He'd wanted that connection with Emily. And he'd wanted to see, if she wanted that connection with him.

She had.

But he hadn't realized how much. And how much he had taken by what he had done. But she was the one that he wanted to be with right now. Because his wife . . . his poor Haley . . . he just couldn't stand to see her anymore. She was the constant reminder of a world . . . a life . . . that was now lost to him.

She lived on another planet.

And it was a terrible thing to admit to himself, but he hated now to even be in the house when she was there. It was like she was a stranger. And the ONE time that his guilt over his rejection of her had overwhelmed him, he had tried to push beyond that sensation. He tried to remember what she used to be.

The love of his life.

So he decided to try one last time to get back into that old world, that old life . . . to make love to the woman still sharing his bed. He wanted to see if he would feel anything. And he had.

Regret . . . and disgust . . . and anger.

It had been a COLOSSAL mistake. It was nearly as bad as if he hadn't been able to perform.

His teeth ground together as he remembered back.

She'd . . . _violated,_ his space. And he knew that was a terribly harsh way of judging what she had done. After all she was his wife, and the act that they were engaged in couldn't have been more physically intimate . . . he was inside of her . . . but when she'd pressed her lips to that scar, she'd taken more of him than he'd been ready to offer to anyone.

And she'd taken it without asking.

She should have known better. He didn't even like her touching his old scars. For almost twenty years she had kept her hands . . . and her lips . . . from wandering to places that made him uncomfortable.

And then she'd broken that unspoken covenant.

And though he had finished what they started simply so he wouldn't have to go finish by himself in the bathroom, there was no turning back from that moment.

A moment when he'd hated her just a little bit.

And that was a new sensation for him . . . the hatred that is. Because he had felt a lot of things for Haley Brooks Hotchner over the years, and hatred had never one of them. There was a time . . . long ago . . . when he adored her. But over time, that level of attachment had changed. Morphed into something else. Something less . . . intense.

But that was normal.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

Marriages had an ebb and a flow . . . you could keep loving someone, but it was impossible to ADORE one person for your whole life.

_Wasn't it?_

It seemed to be. Or at least it seemed to be for him, and he had nothing to compare his life too but that of his own experiences.

Still though, up until six months ago, his love for his wife . . . if not his adorement . . . had not been in question.

At least it hadn't been questioned by him.

But then they'd begun to fight . . . and then they'd begun to fight all the time. And part of him had known that things were slipping away . . . that his marriage was starting to crumble around the edges . . . but still, he loved her.

He did.

He was _almost_ sure that he did.

Almost.

But then he went on that trip, that terrible trip, and now he wasn't sure of anything. Everything . . . his life . . . was falling down around him. It wasn't just the edges of his marriage that were crumbling, it was the entire foundation.

It had fallen out from beneath him.

And though he didn't see how it was possible to fall completely out of love with the person that had been his whole world for half his life, he could see that that was what was happening.

And that terrified him.

Because mostly what he really felt now for her was indifference. And that wasn't even an emotion! Not really. He still cared for her, in an abstract way. And he would still die for her, because she was still the mother of his child . . . but was she really anything else?

They were no longer lovers, they were no longer friends . . . they weren't anything.

They were just roommates.

And how the hell do you sustain a marriage, when you don't even have MEASURABLE level of affection left for the woman that you're supposed to adore?

You can't.

Or at least he didn't think that you could. And even if you could . . . he didn't think that you should. Sometimes things ended whether you wanted them to or not. And sometimes you just had to accept that.

Accept it and let it go.

And it seemed unkind . . . cruel . . . to keep Haley bound to him, when he wanted nothing to do with her. She deserved better.

Hell, ANYONE, would deserve better!

But he couldn't quite walk away. Not yet. He wasn't ready. Because it seemed . . . reckless. He'd not only be ending a marriage . . . but destroying his family. Leaving Jack in a broken home.

And he'd be doing that within weeks of suffering a terrible trauma.

Perhaps what was happening now . . . this distance . . . it would pass. Maybe things would get better.

'_Or maybe they wouldn't . . . maybe it was already too late to fix it before you went away,_' his conscience whispered, _'and maybe now you've already moved on.'_

And though Hotch winced at the thought . . . that he could be that man . . . he couldn't deny that there was more than a shred of truth to that conclusion. Because Emily . . . this new Emily that she had become, and the old one that he could still catch glimmers of now and then . . . they were both seeping into his bones.

He was falling in love.

That was the tug when she pulled her hand away . . . he wanted to pull it back. But that was wrong. So, wrong. But he felt more connected . . . happier . . . with her, than he had with his wife even before he'd stepped on that plane. And it wasn't just what had happened up on that mountain either.

It was more than that.

But his emotions were all mixed up, upside down. And he was trying to keep some lines drawn. A kiss on the forehead . . . versus a kiss on the lips. The fact that he slept on her bedroom floor . . . and not in her bed. Her snuggling into his side on the couch was okay . . . cuddling in his lap . . . as they had done tonight, was not.

Those differences mattered.

Except they didn't.

Because even if he no longer felt the emotion . . . he could remember it. And he _remembered_ what it was like to adore Haley. And he knew back then . . . back when he FELT, married . . . that all of it would have been wrong.

And now it was all a grey area.

Except again, he thought bitterly, it wasn't. It was only grey because he said it was. Because he'd DECIDED that these things were okay.

When they really weren't.

Not if his vows still meant anything to him. And now he could see that not only was he trapping Haley in a life that he no longer wanted, or could see himself going back to, but he was also capable of hurting Emily in a way that he had never intended.

By letting her think that he was ready for something that he wasn't.

Not yet.

And she'd said that he had to be sure . . . that he wasn't to touch her like that again until he was. But he didn't know when he WOULD be sure! Everything was still so raw, their scars were, quite literally, still healing. So how was he supposed to know if it was time . . . if it was RIGHT . . . to walk away from the only, grown-up life, he had ever known?

He just didn't know what to do.

And unlike the cluster that was work, he had nobody to talk to about this one. Emily . . . obviously . . . couldn't help. Not when she was part of the equation.

And he had no one else.

Aaron's thoughts stuttered to a halt as he heard the bathroom door open again. He quickly stood, turning to catch Emily's eyes as she started back down the hall. And he wanted to say the words that she didn't want to hear . . . that he was sorry. And he wanted to say the thing that she'd asked for before, that he promised not to do it again.

But those words . . . said and unsaid . . . had already been covered. So instead he started fresh.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, as he walked towards her. And she gave him a little smile, stopping in the middle of the hall to fold her hands tightly together.

"I am."

Her voice was soft, and their eyes were locked together. Hotch was listening to the album that had continued to play . . . her Best of U2, 80s to 90s. They'd listened to it many times before. And the song had changed close to a half dozen times since he'd been there that night. And it had just changed again. The new song made his chest hurt.

_With Or Without You_

That was the question.

"Would it be all right," he asked softly, though still holding his ground, "if I gave you a hug?"

Though he had accepted that he had already gone too far tonight, he couldn't let it go until he was sure that things were okay again. Next to his son, his relationship with Emily . . . regardless of how it was defined, and regardless of the state of his marriage . . . was presently the most important in his life.

This needed to be fixed.

"Yes," Emily nodded, her eyes crinkling slightly, "that would be all right."

She stepped forward then and the clasp on her fingers loosened . . . she opened her arms.

He walked into them.

Though he pulled her to his chest, his hold was loose, gentle . . . he wasn't taking anything more than he'd already taken. Not without asking.

And not until he was sure he knew what . . . who . . . he wanted.

Still though, he let the embrace go on . . . let it go until she decided it was time to stop. And she only stopped because of the knock on the door.

Her head tipped back, and she gave him another faint smile.

"Pizza's here."

Aaron nodded slowly.

"It is." And then his arm came up, he cupped her jaw.

"You have to eat your salad first," he said with a faint dimple, "no skinny heart attacks."

And then he let her go.

One hand slipped into his pocket to pull out his wallet, the other reached up to pat her good shoulder as he walked by.

Emily's eyes dropped to the floor . . . the smile had fallen away. Her stomach hurt.

_He was going to break her heart._

* * *

_A/N 2: So you can see, Hotch is aware of the mess he's in with the two of them. Not just that his marriage is limping to the finish line, but that his romantic affection, and physical attraction, is shifting from Haley to Emily. Though note he didn't really ponder much on the pain he's causing his wife, because he's somewhat oblivious on that point. He's so used to cutting Haley out of his work life anyway, which led to their divorce in canon, that this version of him now would be AS oblivious on that point. He just doesn't want to see her, and knows he's being a jerk, but not really seeing that it's bigger than that._

_Here again, trying to stay away from previous incarnations of them, this isn't like Girl proper where either of them are oblivious about their feelings. They know it, they're dancing around them, trying to step back from them, but they are AWARE they exist, and they're both aware that they want to act on them, but they can't. It was a new way of doing this. Because here, with them bonded so intimately and intensely (and quickly) by what had happened, you see this version of them don't experience 'happiness' the same way anymore anyway. Not right now. Even toddler Jack isn't enough to reach Hotch that way. But he knows that Emily is a person he can connect with, the only adult person, so every time he feels lost, he seeks her out. And now we're stepping into their lives at this point where he begins to push that boundary a little too far. And then he does to Emily, the same thing he's doing to Haley. So, obviously, Hotch needs to get his head/heart straight or there will be continued romantic angst all around. There will be general angst to come anyway, their mental states will be ongoing, but obviously if I drag the triangle thing out too long as is now, Hotch will just come off as a complete dick :) He's not leaving Haley immediately though, because that is a huge decision to end your marriage and break up your family. Or at least it should be a huge decision, though for some people it seems to be one taken quite casually. So though Hotch might be making a bigger mess of things, he still isn't THAT guy._

_And fortunately for Hotch who has no other friends, Dave's about to ride in on a big black stallion! Yay, Rossi! If you're new to my stuff, I'm huge fan of Rossi. As I say, couldn't love him more if he came with a free beer. And I'd mentioned season 3 would be re-envisioned by what had happened to them. So though obviously we're out of canon, some events from canon will be worked into this world. But in new ways. Like Gideon leaving and Rossi replacing him. Because really, even if Mandy Patinkin hadn't just stopped going to work, they had burned Gideon out. So I let him leave here with a bit more class than on the show, because he did at least stick around for Hotch to get better. And Rossi still gets to come back for the same reasons, that case, but he won't be swaggering in all cocky like they had him do in canon before they got a handle on his character and realized easy going was better for the team. I think right now, regular, easy going Rossi, is the right mix to step in and help them out._

_Unless I get an idea for something in between, the planned next chapter will be them visiting Dave at the McMansion. Either way, though I was fighting it because I do have other stories to update :) I figured I'd just let the muse keep cranking these out as long as she was so focused and doing them so quickly (2 in less than a week!) But the second I start hitting a drag point on any upcoming chapters, which is normal, I'm going to start juggling this one like I do the others. Which is, the best I can :) But for now, we'll just keep bulking up the chapters, and you can keep your fingers crossed that maybe we'll get a couple of more listings in the dropdown._

_I am getting through my reviews, thanks everyone, and I had a few notes on PTSD/ASD, diagnoses from people who actually knew what they were talking about (unlike me!) and thank you so much for those! I have definitely made note of what you shared, and will be writing back to you, I promise :)_


	4. The Outsider

**Author's Note: **I know there's been a bit of a posting gap here, but we're back! And now we're catching up with H/P the next day, on their visit to Dave's house. And this is again a chapter solely from one character's POV. And here the POV is Dave, for reasons that I'll explain at the end.

* * *

**Other Accounts:**

_****NEW WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10__th__ note._

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* * *

**Novel & Short Story Prompt Set #26 (November 2012)**

Author: Josh Kilmer-Purcell

Challenge: I Am Not Myself These Days

* * *

**The Outsider**

_She's quite a babe._

That was Dave's first thought as Emily Prentiss stepped into his front hall in her tight jeans and fitted red tank top.

_She smells good too. _

That was his second thought . . . or maybe his third.

Her tits had caught his attention for a moment too.

And though Dave Rossi was rarely reticent in sharing his thoughts with anyone . . . especially beautiful women that had just voluntarily entered his home of their own free will . . . he bit down on the instinctual (slightly bawdy) flirtation that immediately bubbled up on his tongue.

It would be inappropriate.

Ah hell, his weary Catholic school conscience corrected, the flirtations were ALWAYS inappropriate. But in this instance, Dave knew that they would be particularly so. This woman just looked too sad.

And a bit lost.

Of course Rossi knew the hell that she and Aaron had been through. And he also knew . . . both from personal experience and years of wading through other people's misery . . . that their recovery from that experience was going slowly. That they weren't doing very well.

It was in their eyes.

There was a distance there. A thousand yard stare that Dave had seen looking back from his own mirrors a time or two over the last thirty years. They'd lost something. Something big.

Something important.

But another thing that Dave knew from personal experience, was that nobody got through the BAU without losing something of themselves. Sometimes the loss was small . . . and sometimes the loss was great.

In the latter instances, where that loss felt all consuming . . . where that loss _was_ all consuming . . . it was like having whole chunks of your chest and guts torn away. And yet miraculously, you kept breathing.

It was a God damn hat trick.

Still though, usually . . . if you were lucky . . . you could find some way, some penance, some case, to help you fill in the missing pieces.

But not always.

Sometimes you never recovered. Sometimes you stayed . . . hollow.

Dave knew that from experience too.

But at the moment that was neither here nor there. And seeing his visitors standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the front hall, he knew that he'd been quiet too long.

Occupational hazard of a man that now lived alone, and by extension too much inside his own head. So he tried to break the silence.

And the awkwardness.

"You guys hungry?"

Though the question seemed to take Aaron and his agent by surprise, Dave wasn't quite sure why that would be. It was just after one.

Still very much the lunch hour.

But after exchanging a lingering glance . . . one where they seemed to have a silent conversation . . . Aaron looked back over.

"No," he shook his head slowly, "we're fine. But thank you."

Aaron's voice was cool, professional . . . distant. Very much like Dave remembered it.

But Dave also remembered that the hard . . . sometimes icy . . . shell that surrounded Aaron Hotchner, was just that, a shell. The outer facade. That he was in fact a man with great warmth, who felt things very deeply. And though his trust was hard earned, and his friendship harder still, it was worth it to put in the effort. He was a good man.

And a loyal friend.

And Dave hadn't realized just how much he'd missed him, until that moment when he was standing right in front of him . . . and yet still he was a million miles away.

Because their friendship was long over.

Trying to push off that encroaching . . . bitter . . . melancholy that had been haunting his nights for many months now, Dave turned and busied himself with resetting the locks on the front door.

The door looked elegant and ornate, but was in fact reinforced steel. And the locks . . . though again they had a style and class to them . . . were all reinforced deadbolts.

Three in total.

Even if he was officially out of the serial killer game, he still occasionally did consulting work on the side. Besides that though, he'd chased down enough animals over the years to know that eventually one of them going to come looking for him. Looking to take back his pound of flesh. That day _was_ coming, he had no doubt.

Hence the locks.

And as he was turning the last one, out of the corner of his eye Dave saw Aaron . . . his former personal golden boy, the shining star of the BAU . . . slide his arm around the hot brunette's too slim waist.

Then he tucked her close against his side.

And he did those two things like he had every right to do so . . . like she was his woman. And as soon as his hand came to rest on her hip, the brunette's hand came up to squeeze his fingers.

The two sets of digits stayed laced together.

And because Dave . . . a man who still missed nothing, even this many years out of the field . . . could also very clearly see that shiny gold wedding band sitting on Aaron's dangling ring finger, he found these actions very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

But he said nothing.

Interest was one thing, but their relationship . . . if Aaron was actually stepping out on his wife and screwing one of his agents . . . well, that wasn't actually anybody's business. Certainly not his.

After all . . . Dave huffed bitterly . . . it's not like he hadn't been there himself.

So instead of commenting on things seen that were best left unseen, he tipped his head and raised his arm.

"This way," he said, directing the younger pair towards the side hallway.

He was bringing them to the den on the other side of the house. Given how massive the majority of the rooms in his home were . . . most days they really were more space than he needed . . . Dave had decided that the den was the best place for them to talk. It was a smaller room.

It would be a more intimate space.

And Dave watched as Aaron and his agent . . . _Emily_, Dave reminded himself, her name is Emily, use it . . . nod at the instruction to go left, but neither of them spoke. That's when he realized that neither of them had actually spoken at all beyond their quiet introductions when he'd opened the front door, and then Aaron's response to his direction question about whether they wanted to eat. Dave's brow wrinkled.

That was a little odd for such an alpha pair.

It was odd enough to make him think about it for a second. And then he began to filter their silence through the distance that he had seen in their eyes. That's when he realized, that given the trauma that they had suffered, they probably still didn't like talking to outsiders.

And he was . . . most definitely . . . an outsider.

Of course at this stage in their recovery, they probably didn't like talking to their families or friends either. But given his years of experience in psychological trauma . . . hell, he'd written half the playbooks these two studied now . . . Dave understood that their wariness around him would be absolute.

He was an unknown commodity.

That realization saddened him. Not just because of what had happened to them to make them this way, but because again, he and Aaron had once had a very different relationship. They'd been fairly close. Or at least as close you could get to Aaron Hotchner, a man who considered "how was your weekend?" to be a personal question.

But over time, Dave had worn him down. Got him to talk a bit about his wife. His weekends. Places they went. Parties he would be forced to attend.

The two of them had bonded.

But after Dave had left . . . and a year or two had passed . . . calls stopped being returned, emails went unanswered. There was no fight, or big falling out. They'd just lost touch. It happened. It was life.

And it was sad.

Because that relationship that they'd once had . . . that friendship forged over battle worn days, and too many bottles of whiskey to count . . . it was over.

Perhaps for good.

And Emily, Christ, she didn't know him from fucking Adam. So as far as _she_ was concerned, coming into his home blind, he could be a complete fucking asshole.

And on that point she would be right.

Because he was. One hundred percent, Grade A, son of a bitch. Ask any of his bitter ex-wives, or his string of angry ex-girlfriends. Or his agent . . . or his publisher. The list went on . . . and on.

And on.

But . . . Dave's brow furrowed slightly at the dig in his chest . . . he was working on that. He was working on a lot of things. He didn't want to be an asshole anymore. He wanted his life to have some purpose again. He wanted to enjoy it.

Or at least stop simply existing in it.

And though his strive for redemption was true, Dave also couldn't stop himself from taking notice of Emily Prentiss' fine and shapely ass as she walked down the hall in front of him.

Of course that was entirely inappropriate as well, but it didn't stop him. Because that's just what he did. It was who he was.

It was more of him being an asshole.

And after so many years of checking out mighty fine asses and big perky breasts, that was now part of his DNA. It was also part of the reason that he couldn't keep a wife. And it was also the _primary _reason why he always had a girlfriend.

Those two facts were clearly connected.

But . . . he took a breath . . . that was neither here nor there. Those were thoughts for a different day. Because this woman in front of him (mighty fine ass, and bouncing perky breasts notwithstanding) clearly wasn't on the prospective, next '_Ex-Mrs. Rossi_,' list. She was already taken.

Or at least she very much appeared to be.

Dave's brow wrinkled then when he realized that Emily had just said something. But with the two of them slightly ahead of him . . . just far enough away that he was out of earshot . . . he wasn't sure if her soft words were actually directed at him or not.

If a response was required.

But then he saw Aaron lean over and whisper something back in her ear. And Dave had his confirmation as to whether or not his response was needed.

It wasn't.

And though part of him thought that they were being a bit rude, that they would whisper RIGHT in front of him . . . in his frigging HOME no less(!) . . . Dave suddenly noticed something else.

Emily's free hand.

It was hanging by her other side, swinging slightly as she walked . . . but it was in a tight fist.

And her knuckles were white.

And seeing that tension in her hand, and then noticing it in her shoulders as well, Rossi's steps began to slow . . . then his expression softened.

_Oh Christ, she was nervous. That's why Aaron was holding onto her that way. _

_As a comfort. _

And now processing their interactions through this new lens, that their trauma would have been severe enough to make her, a seasoned field agent and a diplomat's daughter . . . Dave had done his homework, he knew Prentiss' background . . . reticent of strangers, he suddenly felt an ache in his chest for this woman that he did not know.

_Good God honey . . . he thought as he scrubbed his hand across his mouth . . . what the hell did they do to you down there?_

And he would have liked to have asked, truly, but they'd just met. And he wasn't sure how she . . . or Aaron, her obvious protector . . . would respond to such a question. A question that was certainly a hell of lot more personal an inquiry than "how was your weekend?"

So he kept his mouth shut.

But then he realized something else. Taking these two down to his den with the mahogany paneling, oversized leather furniture and deer heads on the wall, definitely wasn't the way to put her at ease. It was too dark, and too masculine.

She'd just feel even more alienated.

And with them only steps now from reaching the turn that would take them to that door, Dave's mind began to race as he tried desperately to think of something that would put her . . . _them,_ Aaron seemed no less comfortable . . . at ease in his home.

Finally a thought popped into his head and he cleared his throat.

"Uh, guys."

They stopped short, both turning slowly to look back at him . . . there was an identical raised eyebrow on each of their faces. And if he hadn't been such an asshole, and a cranky son of a bitch, Dave might have that was sweet.

The way they appeared to be so in tune with one another, that is.

But he was an asshole, and a cranky son of a bitch . . . more and more as the years passed, and the wives rotated through . . . so he pushed the thought way. Sentimentality was an indulgence that he couldn't afford.

Not anymore.

"I just remembered that there was something I wanted to show you," he continued smoothly, while jerking his thumb back down the hall.

"It's upstairs."

Dave could see the faint confusion at this course correction . . . those matching eyebrows had both ratcheted up another half millimeter . . . but neither of them said anything. And figuring that faint eyebrow movement was as much acknowledgement of his statement that he was going to get, Dave didn't wait for a verbal response. Instead he simply turned and headed back the other way. They'd be right on his heels.

He knew it.

And sure enough, he'd only gone a few steps along the shiny hardwood, before he heard the click of her boot heels, and the faint scuff of his.

Aaron's gait wasn't quite as smooth as hers was.

It took another minute to cross back through the house . . . again, the office was in the back, and the staircase he wanted to use was in the front . . . and there was nothing but the footsteps to break the silence as they walked through.

And once he'd arrived again by the front door, Dave automatically began to jog up the grand staircase.

He was halfway up, already picturing their reaction to his gun collection, when he heard Emily clear her throat.

"We'll be a minute."

Dave stopped, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then he turned back to see that his visitors were way down on the second step.

Aaron's face had a faint pink tinge to it, and his jaw was tight. And his grip on Emily seemed less possessive now, and more, more . . .

Dave winced when it came to him.

Therapeutic.

Aaron needed her help to climb the stairs.

Oh Christ. It was just over a month since the guy had been shot . . . and though Aaron's limp while walking had barely been noticeable . . . stairs were probably the bane of his existence.

And he just asked him to walk up almost thirty of them.

"Oh, Jesus Aaron," Dave started hurrying back down, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be an asshole, I just wasn't thinking. You know what," he pointed past them, "let's just . . ."

But the rest of his sentence was cut off.

"No,_"_ Aaron hissed tightly, his fingers quite clearly digging into Emily's side, "it's _fine_. We can go up. I just need a minute . . ." his jaw twitched, "or three."

Then he waved his free hand back up the staircase.

"But I don't need an audience. You go on. We'll be there," he rolled his eyes slightly, "when we get there."

Though Aaron's dismissal was absolute . . . that tone was another one that he remembered clearly . . . Dave still stared down for a moment longer. He was taking in the set of Aaron's jaw, and the way Emily had angled herself under his side.

It said something about their relationship . . . something meaningful . . . that they considered conquering the stairs to be a joint issue, though it was technically only his problem alone.

But either way . . . Dave swallowed at the recurrent realization of being an outsider . . . his presence was clearly not needed. Or welcome. Emily was shooting him a _'why the fuck are you still standing there,_' look.

It was past time for him to leave.

"Okay, uh," he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, "I'll see you up there."

Then he turned, and . . . shaking his head . . . headed back up the stairs.

_It was going to be an interesting afternoon._

* * *

_A/N 2: If you're newer to my work, you might not know that Dave is my favorite behind H/P, so full disclosure, he is :) So on that point it was nice to kind of dive into his psyche in a way that I haven't been able to before. Which was why __I picked him for a new perspective in the story, but I also did it as a writing exercise because I've never actually written Dave as he was when he FIRST walked back in the door of the BAU. Back when he was just a bit cocky and arrogant. He mellowed quickly as Mantegna got a feel for him, but he did have a certain attitude in that first episode coming back, that you could read as a product of his life at that point in time. The guy that's been out of the field and making money for a lot of years, jaded and arrogant not because he's a dick by nature, but because he knows that his life no longer has the purpose that it once did, and he's trying to bluster around it. Even to himself. _

_So in writing this chapter, I tried to capture that Dave, because that Dave is the one that they're meeting here. So if he starting off with a slightly different edge to him than my usual 'Girl Dave,' that was on purpose :) You'll notice the shift as the day goes. And we will be continuing their visit in the next chapter._

_And thanks for all the feedback this week folks! I will be updating The Arrangement again shortly too._


	5. One Step Up, Two Steps Down

**Author's Note: ** Continuing the visit at Dave's.

* * *

Prompt Set #36 - January 2012

Show: Game of Thrones

Title Challenge: Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

* * *

**One Step Up, Two Steps Down**

Emily waited until she saw Rossi disappear off the landing and go around the corner. Then she pushed down her irritation that it took him so long to go . . . it was really only like ten seconds, but her short fuse was unforgiving of even the most innocuous of delays . . . and took a deep breath.

"Okay," she murmured, keeping her tone light while Aaron's grip around her waist tightened, "let's get this done."

Though she knew that Aaron had stairs in his home, she had realized from his quiet curse when they had reached the bottom of _this_ staircase, that his stairs were nowhere near as numerous . . . or as steep . . . as these ones were. But of course Dave Rossi didn't live in a normal home, he lived in a McMansion.

Everything was Texas sized.

And as she and Aaron reached the eighth step, she huffed.

"Well, it's good practice, right?"

"Right," Aaron gave a tight exhale, his hold on the oak railing starting to feel a bit sweaty, "good practice."

It was, because he did need to practice stairs. But that fact didn't change another . . . that his calf from SCREAMING at him! Because even if he had his own staircase at home, that one was _nothing_ like the one he was walking up right now. And even with his, it had been two full weeks of him dragging his leg before he'd been able to make it to the second story without having to stop and rest in the middle.

And though his recovery had been going remarkably well . . . their daily walks had done wonders to speed things along . . . Hotch knew that he was far from done with his physical therapy. There were still another two months mandated, and the stairs were still the most painful of his exercises.

And he had just finished two HOURS of those exercises before they'd driven over to Dave's house!

Not that he would EVER tell Rossi that his calf muscles felt like rubber . . . which they did . . . because then he'd look like a pansy ass. Couldn't walk up a fucking flight of stairs?

What kind of man was _that_?

Okay . . . his jaw twitched . . . a recently injured one, but still, he wasn't backing out of this now. And perhaps the pain wouldn't have been quite as bad as it was, if he would have just taken things slow. But he didn't _want_ to take things slow. He _wanted_ to see how quickly he could get to the top. If he could do it like the old days.

Like 'normal.'

Because NEXT week . . . most likely . . . they'd be back in the office. And once they returned to the office, he wouldn't have the luxury of keeping Emily with him everywhere he went.

It would be ludicrous to even try.

So in honor of the anticipated pain of losing the one person in his life that he had entrusted his entire sense of self, he was being a stubborn SOB. One who kept moving even when his muscles started to give out on him.

They were locking up.

But still he kept going, dragging his leg along when he knew he'd pushed it too far. He even refused to stop when Emily started to fuss, and tried to make him take a moment and rest.

"No, he shot back angrily, his breath ragged as he tugged on her waist, "no rest." He panted, "I want to _finish_."

And though he knew that Emily didn't approve of what he was doing, that she thought he was being ridiculous, she let him be a fool. She said nothing, instead just leaning up to kiss his cheek. Then she adjusted her grip around his waist, and started pulling him along.

And he loved her a little bit for that.

Or he should say, he loved her a little bit _more_. Because loving her by degrees, was all that he was allowed.

And he wasn't even allowed that.

And when they finally reached the landing . . . both of them winded, him with his shirt starting to stick and a clear bead of sweat on his forehead . . . Hotch felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

And then a flood of embarrassment.

He'd reached the top of the stairs . . . and he was sweating like he'd just climbed Everest. So yes, he did feel like a complete idiot for such a small victory. Which was why he was also grateful to see that Dave hadn't decided to come back and wait for them in the upstairs hallway.

He was still off doing God knows what.

So Hotch took that moment of relative privacy to drop down onto the landing, and stretch his leg out over the top step.

The muscles in his calf were THROBBING! And as a result of that pain, his panting wasn't getting any better. His breaths were still coming shallow and tight. At that moment, his leg was hurting almost as much as it had his first week in physical therapy. It was a setback.

A humiliating one.

"Aaron, are you all right?"

Emily whispered question came with a gentle touch . . . her fingers running through his hair. And that was enough for him to try to suck it up.

He didn't want her to worry any more than she already was.

So he lifted his head, his lip curling slightly as he squeezed the dangling fingers on her other hand.

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, taking another shallow breath in the process, "I'm okay. Just uh, a bit of a cramp," then his lips pursed slightly. "You don't have any Vicodin with you, do you?"

Aside from different antibiotics, they'd been given virtually identical prescriptions when they left the hospital. And given his current condition, he would have HAPPILY beaten someone unconscious for just a _half _of a Vicodin. But it had been just over a week since he'd tossed his bottle into the back of the medicine cabinet. His condition had finally improved to the point that it was no longer worth it to put up with the nausea that came along with the country's most popular legal narcotic.

How people became addicted to that shit, he'd never know.

"No," Emily's nose wrinkled at Hotch's question, "sorry, I haven't been taking them much lately." Then her brow rose slightly, "though you know what? I think I left some Midol in the glove compartment." She put her hand out, "give me the keys and I'll go get it."

Hotch stared up at Emily for a moment . . . realized she was serious . . . and blinked.

"No," he shook his head firmly while leaning over to rub his calf, "no, thank you. I'll uh," he cleared his throat before slowly exhaling. "I'll be fine."

"Aaron," Emily rolled her eyes, "you do know that ingesting Midol isn't going to make you grow a _vagina_, right? It's just a pain killer with a diuretic."

Men could be so RIDICULOUS sometimes!

"If that stuff can grow vaginas, I'd love to see the warning label they slapped on it."

Emily had whipped around before Rossi had even finished speaking. And before she could say anything in response . . . like to ask him how the hell long he'd been standing there . . . she saw that he was holding a bottle in his hand. He winked at her just as he shook it.

Tylenol.

She could have kissed him.

"Thank you very much for bringing that," she murmured appreciatively, her gaze shifting from Rossi down to Hotch still sitting at her feet. "He really needs to take something, and as you heard, he's being ridiculous about the Midol."

Aaron _was_ being ridiculous, but seeing the look that he shot her for saying it, she knew that he didn't much appreciate her voicing that particular opinion _aloud_.

Well . . . she scowled back at him . . . tough. Sometimes the truth was hard to hear. And they weren't going to get better by pulling punches with each other.

They were all that they had.

So she put her hand on her hip, and gave him the earful that he deserved.

"You _are _being ridiculous Aaron,_" _she shot back, feeling a rare, though genuine, flame of anger at this man who was becoming her world, "I just wanted your leg to feel better, you _jackass!_ And I'm pretty sure that your PENIS isn't going to fall off just because you ingest a couple of Midol!"

Hotch glared up at Emily for a moment before the anger . . . fueled by his embarrassment at the situation . . . started to fade. His teeth sunk into his lip.

Then he slowly exhaled.

"I'm sorry."

Seeing Emily's expression immediately soften at his capitulation, he continued by tipping his head.

"You're absolutely right. You were being nice and trying to help, and I was being an idiot." Then he looked over to Dave, still standing quietly, still holding the bottle of Tylenol. He jerked his head slightly.

"You have any whiskey to go with that stuff?"

It was time for a truce . . . all around.

Dave's lip quirked up.

"Does the Pope have any big hats?" Then he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "it's down in the library. I'll go break out the glasses, you get your crippled ass moving off the floor. And next time," he shot him a look, "don't be so God damn stubborn. If I'd realized your leg was still that fucked up, I'd have knocked you on your ass before you tried to make it up the stairs."

And with that, Dave turned and disappeared back down the hall.

Hotch stared for a moment into the empty space. Then his lip quirked up.

"Still the same asshole he always was." He murmured to himself.

He was also one of the most honest, plain spoken, _honorable_, men that Hotch had ever known. And those were qualities that went a long way to smooth out the other rough edges. Like the fact that he _was_ indeed an asshole.

His sense of humor helped too.

But you always knew where you stood with Dave. And he always told you the straight truth even if you didn't want to hear it. Kind of like with Emily . . . though without the pretty package or gentle approach. Well, usually she was gentle.

She'd actually just handed him his ass.

But . . . his gaze shifted back over to her lovely face . . . he'd deserved it.

"Yeah," Emily nodded slowly, her voice coming from far away, "yeah, he is kind of an asshole, isn't he?" Then she turned and looked back over to Hotch. Her expression was deadly serious.

"I think I like him though."

It was obvious that he cared about Hotch . . . after all, he came back with the pills . . . but he was also, clearly, a ball buster. He wasn't treating Aaron with kid gloves. He was speaking the plain truth, even if his language wasn't what most people would consider polite or 'politically correct.' And that's exactly what Aaron needed. Somebody else . . . someone_ besides_ her . . . that would tell the Emperor when he had no clothes.

When they got back into the office . . . and the stress started to overwhelm him, as it would . . . reminding Aaron Hotchner that he was a mere mortal, with limitations like anyone else, was going to be the only thing that kept the man from running himself into the ground.

And Emily would take all the backup she could on that front.

"Yeah," Hotch nodded, "I like him too. He's a good guy."

Though it was clear, even from their brief visit so far, that really nothing much had changed since Hotch had last seen him six years ago. There was a bit more of an air to him now, but the man always had a healthy ego and off in the private sector he'd had nothing to keep that in check.

And even though he'd always been a bit of a womanizer . . . and still was, Hotch had seen how Dave had checked Emily out when they'd walked in . . . on duty, the man had never actually shown his female agents any less respect or consideration than his male ones. All that mattered to him was that you could do your job. The rest of it was window dressing.

And he did like a window with a nice ass.

So as Hotch let Emily help him to his feet, he asked the question of the day.

"Do you want me to ask him?"

Emily stared down at the carpet runner for a moment, noticing the strand of gold thread winding through the dark pattern. Then she looked back up, and tipped her head.

"Yeah, let's see what he says."

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly as he squeezed her hand.

"Sounds good."

Okay, so now they'd made their big decision. They would be asking Dave to come back to the BAU with them. But now what the hell was _he_ going say? Christ only knew, but they were going to be screwed if it was anything but yes.

And with that Hotch bit back a sigh as he slipped his arm back around Emily's waist. Then with her tucked against his side . . . half for her emotional support, half for his physical . . . they started down the hall.

Time to see the wizard.

* * *

_A/N 2: I might stick with this one for a bit. I've been in a bit of a mood (got some jackass comment from somebody last week that gave me zero desire to post anything, anywhere) and this was the only world that actually caught my interest again. We'll see how it goes. _

_Otherwise, thank you to everybody ELSE for all of your support and kind words :) Overall, like 99 out of 100 my readers are totally awesome people. I just generally get one dick a year, which I guess comparatively are pretty good odds :)_


	6. Questions Asked & Questions Answered

**Author's Note**: The final chapter of their Dave visitation. It is a 'healthy sized' read.

And thank you for all of the very sweet notes after the last chapter. I really wasn't begging for praise, (just trying to illustrate that all it takes is one thoughtless d'bag comment to mess with a writer's head/output), but I thank you 99/100 for totally reinforcing my faith in the system :) I love you all, Marta! (for the AD people)

* * *

**Prompt Set #22 (June 2012)**

Author: Graham Masterton

Title Challenge: Friend in Need

* * *

**Questions Asked & Questions Answered**

After they made it down to the library . . . hard to miss which room that was given Rossi had left the double doors open . . . Hotch and Emily stopped in the entrance for a moment.

Taking in the details of the room, Emily felt a little better about the question they were going to ask. Because the man who had built this home, clearly had tastes similar to her own. It was a warm space.

And it looked lived in.

New books and old were stacked on the built-ins running along two walls of the room. From what she could see, most of the books were neatly arranged on the shelves by topic and author. But a good number of the books had also been pulled out. They were lying about haphazardly with creased bindings and fluffed pages. They'd actually been read.

A bit of a novelty in this day and age.

The third wall of the room had a small red brick fireplace with a mahogany mantle that matched the shelving.

The fourth wall was where Rossi sat. He'd set up a bit of a 'lounging' area there. Beautiful leather furniture with thick cushions, and brass nail head accents.

And over by that fourth wall, the bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of Glenfiddich, were sitting on a small, though ornately carved, wooden coffee table. It complemented . . . though didn't exactly match . . . the shelves and the mantle.

Three highball glasses were already filled with whiskey and ice.

Rossi himself had set up camp in a leather wing chair that . . . based on the notable space gap on the adjacent wall . . . had probably been dragged over. It had been kiddy cornered against one side of the coffee table. Directly across from the chair, was a small leather couch.

Hotch and Emily headed for the couch.

After they'd sat down, even though there was definitely room enough to spread out, Emily pressed herself firmly against Hotch's side. Though her instinct, her desire, was to take his hand and pull it over to her thigh, given the circumstances, she wasn't sure of the appropriateness of that act. After all, Aaron was married and she didn't want to give Rossi the wrong impression.

If he hadn't gotten the wrong impression already, of course.

For a brief moment they all sat there in silence. Rossi broke it by pushing the bottle of Tylenol across the table with the tip of his finger.

"This first."

Then they waited while Hotch picked up the bottle before downing two of the little cylindrical pills with a gulp of the whiskey.

Once the little plastic bottle and his half empty glass, had returned to the table, Hotch leaned back against the couch, trying to stifle his moan of discomfort while he waited for the pills and liquor to kick in.

One of his arms was now lying diagonally across his lap, and the tips of his fingers were brushing against Emily's upper thigh. An outwardly intimate gesture, that he had engaged in many times before. It no longer gave him any pause at all.

On the List of Things That Mattered, it didn't.

Dave eyed his two guests for a second, taking in their body language . . . and their breathing . . . before he took his own breath, and crossed his arms behind his head.

"Okay," he exhaled, "cards on the table time. We'll to get to me in a second. First, you two," he jerked his chin towards the couple on the couch, "how are you doing? Really? And don't say fine because that would be complete bullshit and we all know it."

Then . . . to get the conversation going . . . he shifted his attention towards Hotch directly.

"It's clear at the very least, your leg is still pretty fucked up Aaron."

Though he was figuring the poor bastard's head was probably still pretty fucked up too, that wasn't Dave's immediate area of interest.

Those questions could come later.

Hotch bit his lip.

"Uh, it's actually not that bad."

Seeing the look he got from Dave . . . the basic, "are you fucking kidding me" . . . Hotch tipped his head slightly before qualifying his answer.

"Well, usually. We just came from physical therapy and between that and the stairs, I just pushed it too hard today. But you're right, I do have a ways to go there." He shrugged. "I think it's maybe sixty-five, seventy percent healed."

Dave's vision narrowed . . . his bullshit detector was on high.

"And was that your only major injury?"

Hearing Hotch's immediate, and dismissive, "yes," Emily's brow wrinkled.

"Nooo," she corrected slowly while turning to shoot Hotch a look, "no, it wasn't your only major injury, Aaron. You also had a concussion, twenty-six stitches in your scalp, another half dozen in your chest, and a bruised rib that had you popping Vicodin that first week like they were Tic Tacs."

How Aaron felt those injuries weren't worth 'mentioning,' was beyond her!

Hotch's eyes widened in surprise.

"Emily," he shook his head in disbelief, "Dave asked about _major_ injuries, those were minor. You know the rib wasn't that serious. It just hurt like a bitch."

Emily stared back at Aaron for a moment before she turned and looked over at Rossi. He was watching them closely. And though she knew that they were being profiled by one of the best, at the moment she didn't give a crap. All that mattered was that he agreed to help Hotch.

And she was not above begging if it came right down to it.

Though she was of course hoping it wouldn't come down to that. But in the meantime . . . she took a breath . . . some things needed to be clarified. She leaned forward, her eyes locked firmly onto Rossi's.

She wanted to make damn sure he was paying attention.

"He got the shit kicked out of him," she stated quietly, "twice. And that was in addition to getting shot, and before we were in a car accident where we ended upside down in a ditch. The bruises on his chest and back are still fading, so those muscles are definitely not all healed yet."

Feeling Hotch's body had tensed up, Emily turned back to the man at her side.

Seeing his face was slightly red, and his eyes were down, her expression softened. Then she moved her hand over to squeeze his fingers.

Inferences be damned.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "but he said cards on the table, and, Aaron, you were _very_ badly injured. I know that you're much better now, but it's really only been a few weeks, and I don't think that we can leave that stuff out like it doesn't matter. Your body is _still_ healing, and not even counting your leg, it'll probably be another month or two before you're back to full core strength."

Though she hated to embarrass him, and he was very clearly embarrassed, she saw no point in even having this discussion with Rossi, if he didn't know what the hell he was getting into. Emily's main concern was Aaron. And Aaron needed help. A lot of it.

Rossi needed to know that.

Dave bit his lip, considering what had just been shared, and what that meant for not only Hotch's physical condition, but his mental well-being too.

There was nothing good there.

"And what about you?" He gestured to Emily, "how are you doing?"

It was clear that she had no problem pulling punches when it came to Hotch, so now Rossi was curious if she could deliver that same brutally honest assessment when it came to her own physical limitations. Or would Hotch have to step in and 'clarify' things for her, as she had for him. Dave was almost wishing that he would. Though that was purely for prurient reasons.

He was pretty curious about whether Aaron would admit that he was as familiar with Emily Prentiss' unclothed body, as she'd indicated she was with his.

"Um," Emily paused for a moment as she considered the question. It was no more in her nature to admit openly to weakness, as it was in Aaron's.

But she knew that it needed to be done.

It would be cowardly to point out his soft spots if she wasn't also willing to point out her own. So she took a small sip of liquid courage, and then a deep breath.

"Aaron's actually in better shape than I am," she responded softly, her gaze following to the table, lingering on the glass of whiskey she'd just put back down. "My initial injuries weren't quite as severe, I didn't take the beatings he did, but I lost a lot more blood. Both from getting shot, and I lost a piece of my scalp."

Her jaw twitched as she thought back to that moment.

"It was torn out," her hand unconsciously moved up to touch her head, "my hair mostly covers the scar but it took about a half dozen stitches to close the wound. And I also had a couple of pulled ligaments, and torn muscles in my arm and back. They're still healing. I can't lift yet what I could before. Not even close. And um . . . I," she swallowed, her words faltering even as Aaron's fingers tightened their grip around hers, "I've lost some weight, too much weight, and I know that's my fault and I need to work on that." Then she lifted her eyes, a bit of strength coming back into her voice as her gaze again locked onto Rossi's penetrating one.

"I can still shoot though. Straight shot, ten out of ten. But it will be some months before I'm any good in hand to hand again. Right now I'd probably get my ass kicked."

Though she was feeling humiliated, and vulnerable, Emily actually felt more at ease telling Rossi about her failings than she ever had their official therapist. Because had a feeling that this man might know where she was coming from.

That he might have been there himself.

And even as she felt Aaron's warm hand holding hers . . . supporting her even after she'd embarrassed him . . . she kept her gaze locked onto Rossi's. She wanted to see what he would say. How he would respond to what they had both said.

If he could help.

She hoped that he could. But it was still to her surprise when suddenly he smiled. The new curves in his features were warm and sympathetic.

They actually made her feel better.

"Honey, as long you can still shoot straight," he leaned forward, "it's unlikely anybody's going to have a chance to kick your pretty ass."

Then his gaze shifted over to Hotch.

"And you. You were always freakishly strong anyway. So if you're down to mere mortal strength now, I'm sure that's going to motivate you to work twice as hard to get back to where you were before."

It was clear from their subdued body language, that these two alphas were both feeling embarrassed . . . and ashamed . . . about having to admit to their diminished capabilities.

Of course that was idiocy.

The fact that they'd even SURVIVED that abduction demonstrated just how strong they really were. So Dave added something that he hoped had already been covered in what he knew would have been mandated counseling.

And if it hadn't been covered, somebody needed to get their ass fired.

"I don't know what the hell happened to you two down there," he continued softly, "I don't know what choices you had to make, and I don't know if you had to do it over again, if you would make the same ones. If you ever want to talk about that," he rubbed his hands together, "I'll listen. I will. Because I've been to some bad places myself, and I might be able to help you sort some of that crap out. But the one thing that I can tell you, that I've learned, is that whatever you're feeling right now, physically, mentally, it'll get better. Bit by bit. And eventually you'll be," he tipped his head, "_functional_ again. Not what you were before, and maybe that's what you're hoping to be, what you're striving for, but you need to let that idea go. Because none of us are ever going to be what we were before we walked into this shit storm. Those people are gone. You just need to work on the you that you are now. And eventually," he leaned back in his chair, "you'll make your peace with that person. And if you don't," he put his hands up in front of him, "well, we all know the score there."

Dave knew that score a hell of a lot better than most. He'd lost too many friends and colleagues. And if these two didn't make that peace, he knew that they'd either drown themselves in a bottle . . . or put a bullet in their brains.

Probably the first before the second.

Though he was praying that they were stronger than that. They seemed to be. And hopefully if they stuck together . . . as they clearly were intending to do . . . then they'd be able to move forward eventually. And he'd be happy to help guide them.

If they'd let him.

Feeling his stomach churning with acid, Hotch bit down hard on his cheek.

"Would you help us?" he asked quietly. "Because we do know that score, and we do know those odds. And we know that they're stacked against us. And though I'm grateful for the offer to talk, and I actually might take you up on that, what I need," he swallowed, "that is . . ."

He stopped for a second, and then Emily squeezed his hand . . . and he tried again.

For her.

"When we spoke a few weeks ago," he continued a bit more confidently, "you'd mentioned that you might be coming back to the Bureau. That you had some debts that you needed to settle. So if you _are _coming back," Hotch's voice started to get a little thick, "could you please come back now? Because I'm about to be cleared to run a unit that I can no longer run. Not now. Not by myself. I don't have the strength, physically or mentally. I'm not there yet. But Gideon is leaving, that's happening, and that leaves me with one hell of a problem. And not to put any pressure on you, but honest to Christ Dave, I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do if you say _no_."

Hotch's voice caught on the last word. He winced just as Emily squeezed his fingers.

'_Christ, good job embarrassing yourself Aaron. Why don't you just get down on your knees and beg?'_

And he was just about to apologize for getting emotional . . . Emily wasn't the only one with the occasional difficulties in that respect . . . when he felt something touching his other arm.

It was the side opposite from the hand Emily was holding.

His watery eyes opened to see Rossi crouched down by the little sofa. He was patting his arm.

"Yes, Aaron," his eyes crinkled, "I will help you. All you had to do was ask. I owe you some debts too my friend, so even if I hadn't been thinking about a return, I'd still come back to help you. That's what we do." His eyes started to glisten. "We help each other up when we fall down. And we don't leave anyone behind."

Hearing Emily sniffle, Dave's gaze shifted to see her openly crying . . . though she was trying frantically to scrub the tears from her face. And though he felt sadness for her pain . . . and her embarrassment . . . he felt no pity.

He didn't think she would appreciate it.

So his smile widened to include her . . . though now it was tinged with a bit of the misery that he carried himself.

"And that includes you too Agent Prentiss." He reached over to pat her knee, "you're Aaron's friend. And that's good enough endorsement for me."

"Thank you," Emily sniffled again and wiped the back of her hand across her face, "I obviously can't help him right now, and I didn't know what he was going to do if you said no to him."

A little glint came into Dave's eye.

"Well, if he still has a brain in his head, he would have known to just have you ask instead. Never in my life have I said no to any request by a beautiful woman. Never have, never will. It's counterproductive to me getting laid."

Hotch snorted just as Emily started to laugh. The tears still mixing in with her unexpected mirth. But she hadn't really laughed in a long time.

It felt good.

And then Rossi passed her a tissue . . . and then a glass of whiskey. He did the same to Aaron.

And then he stood up with his own drink in hand.

"To shooting straight," he toasted, "and always getting up when you fall down. Cheers."

Feeling fresh tears burning her eyes, Emily lifted her glass.

"Cheers."

"Cheers," Hotch joined in from her side. His voice was still a little husky and his fingers were still tightly wound around hers. Briefly, and somewhat foolishly, she wondered if he would never let her go.

And then she wondered if she even wanted him to.

And then they drank . . . and those thoughts were pushed away. The dichotomy of the cold liquor cutting a warm swath down her throat, burning her from the inside.

That felt good too.

Rossi made sure that they finished their drinks, and then he immediately poured them another. And when Aaron tried to point out that he had to drive, and that he hadn't eaten in some hours, Rossi just waved his hand.

"Well, then you'll just have to stay for that late lunch then, won't you? I'll go put on the grill," he took a big swig from his glass before smashing it down on the table, "you two rest up. I'll come get you when it's time to eat. Oh, and here," he quickly moved to slide the bottle and pills and stray books to the side, "put your leg up. I don't want you pulling a humpty dumpty when you try to walk down the stairs."

And with that he was gone. The swirl of whiskey and expensive aftershave left in his wake.

Emily watched the open door for a moment, the glass hovering by her lips. Then she took another small sip of the warm amber liquid . . . that was followed by a full on gulp. And then she put the drink back on the table, and over to the side.

That's when she finally pulled her hand free from Aaron's . . . she could feel the resistance in his grip.

"Come on now," she murmured while leaning over to lift up his leg, "up like he said. Better to stretch it out before the muscles lock up again."

Surprisingly, he didn't fight her on that. So after she had him better situated, leg now up, a once more full drink in his hand, Emily kicked off her boots. Then she pulled her legs up under her and leaned over to pick up her own glass again. She took a sip, biting her lip as she brought the whiskey down to her knee.

Her head she placed on Aaron's chest.

His free arm immediately came up to wrap around her shoulders.

They were both quiet for a moment, the only sound that of the air conditioning that had just kicked on again. Finally Emily took a breath and exhaled softly.

"I like it here."

The whole scene was all very inviting, in an old school kind of way. It felt safe, and warm. Two qualities that had been elusive since they'd returned home. Even when Aaron was with her, though her world was a little better, there was still a gap.

An emptiness.

The knowledge that even with him by her side, they were still off alone. And they were alone in a very dark place. And the knowledge of that isolation continued to push against whatever comfort his touch could bring.

But here, after talking to Rossi, she felt a little more connected.

A little less cold.

Maybe a bit of that was also the liquor, but it was more than just that, or Rossi's promises of help. The room itself was comforting. New ferns hanging in the corners like ivy. The smell of expensive leather, old books.

Aaron.

She rubbed her cheek on his chest . . . Aaron was her touchstone. And now . . . to her astonishment . . . they might have actually met somebody who could help them. Help both of them. Rossi might actually be somebody to talk to.

Somebody besides that idiot Jablonski.

Maybe this mystery man who radiated equal parts humorous irreverence, and a bitter sadness, really would be their savior. And she knew from the way that Aaron's breath hitched, right before he kissed her temple, that he felt that way too.

"Yeah," Hotch nodded with a quiet murmur against Emily's skin. "I think we made a good call coming here today."

It wasn't until Rossi actually said yes, that Hotch had realized just how much he truly had been investing in his response.

There was no plan B.

But now he was a little less panicked. Like he might be able to come up with a plan to get things done. Because now he knew that Rossi would be there besides him. He could keep things going, even if he hit the wall. And worst case, truly absolutely _worst_ case, if it turned out he really couldn't hack it any longer . . . if the odds went against him . . . Dave would be there for that too.

He could take over.

It was a safety net that Hotch hadn't realized he'd needed, until it had fallen into his lap.

And with one of his most pressing worries semi-sorted out, that knot pressing on his chest, wasn't quite so tight. There were still so many other things he needed to address . . . high among them his actual redemption as a human being, not to mention his growing feelings for the woman curled against his side . . . but those thoughts were for other days.

Today was the first day that he'd had a win in a long while.

So he finished his whiskey, and he let Emily pour him a third. And they sat there up in that quiet drinking their drinks and doing absolutely nothing at all. Before he knew it, Emily was murmuring how tired she was. And then her head was lying on a pillow in his lap.

And then Dave was waking him up.

His eyes popped open to see that lazy smirk he used to know so very well.

"If I'd known you two were going to drink until you passed out," Dave whispered, "I would have put you in the guest room."

Hotch gave him a bleary eye roll while simultaneously stifling a yawn.

"Physical therapy is exhausting you jackass." His fingers lightly brushed along Emily's bare arm, "we were there for two hours before we came here. And again," he stifled another yawn while murmuring back, "we haven't eaten since this morning."

Rossi's lip quirked up.

"Just busting your chops, Aaron. So," Dave's gaze dropped down to the woman still sleeping in his lap . . . her mascara was still slightly smeared from when she'd been crying. "The food's ready. Do you want to wake up Snow White, or let her rest?"

Hotch sighed.

"I'd like to let her rest, but I'm afraid she can't afford to skip anymore meals." His eyes snapped up to Dave's.

"We'll be down in a minute."

Dave could take a hint . . . his presence for this part wasn't needed . . . so he straightened up and nodded.

"Okay, see you out on the patio. That's off the living room, which you'll find to the left of the main staircase."

Then he turned and left the room again.

A quick check of his watch showed Hotch that it had been probably close to an hour since he'd left them the first time.

It was a little after two thirty.

With some effort he bit back a third yawn . . . he didn't know why he was so God damn tired . . . and brushed the backs of his fingers lightly along Emily's cheek. It wasn't the first time that he'd done that.

But of course it wasn't the first time that she'd fallen asleep with her head in his lap.

Her skin, as always, was soft and smooth. Though there was also a faint stickiness from her earlier tears.

It wasn't the first time that he'd felt that either.

And it felt natural to be touching her that way. But again he knew that if his vows still meant anything to him, that he wouldn't be touching her at all.

It would be incredibly inappropriate.

Hell, it was incredibly inappropriate either way, but he didn't care. Though he was trying not to cross that line again . . . the one where he actually brought _more_ pain to the woman sleeping in front of him . . . he was having some difficulties there. He had so little left that brought him any genuine sparks of happiness.

Emily was one of those few things.

And that's why he felt that the touch of her cheek would be okay. Because it was better than what he wanted to do. Which was to lean down and press a kiss to her temple . . . and then one to her brow.

And then move along her salty cheek, until he got to those soft pink lips. And then . . .

He winced.

_No, Aaron. No. Just stop. You can't do that. Not until you figure out what you're doing with your marriage. If you still have a marriage to even figure out. _

After that little internal castigation . . . a needed kick in the ass after last night's colossal fuck up . . . Hotch took a breath and removed his hand from Emily's cheek. Then he reached down to pick up her hand instead.

It was safer.

He squeezed it.

"Hey, time to wake up," he whispered, "Dave said the food's ready."

A second later Emily's lashes fluttered open.

"Food?" She murmured sleepily. And Hotch nodded.

"Yeah, food. Plus, we were sleeping at somebody else's house. So," his eyes crinkled slightly, "just on principle we should probably wake up now."

"Oh," Emily's eyes suddenly widened as she sat up, "right."

That was weird. She couldn't believe she'd taken a nap at some virtual stranger's house. Okay, he was a nice stranger . . . and via Aaron's association, a trustworthy one . . . but still, weird.

So after they got up, and stretched . . . trying to hide their respective winces from one another . . . Emily pulled on her boots again and they headed out into the hall.

Before they went downstairs, they stopped into the bathroom to freshen up a bit. Both splashed a little water on their face, and then Emily touched up her eye makeup with a bit of toilet tissue. When she turned to ask Aaron if she looked acceptable, he just gave her a sad smile.

"Always," he whispered. And then he turned and limped out of the bathroom.

She stared after him for a moment, feeling those unwelcome tears again burning her eyes, before she shook her head.

No time for sentiment, he was going to go ass over tea kettle if he tried to make it down those stairs alone. So Emily quickly straightened the towels, and then hurried after the man who once again was breaking her hurt.

She helped him back down the stairs.

And then they wandered around a bit until they found the living room. Fortunately . . . given that half of the far wall in that room was made of glass . . . it was pretty easy to locate the patio.

Rossi waved them out.

While they'd been cleaning up, the man of the house had been stacking burgers on a platter under a steam cover. Next to that, there was a bag of potato rolls and small stack of paper plates and plastic silverware.

There were also a couple bowls of chips.

To Emily's surprise, her stomach started to rumble. It had been a while since she'd really 'craved' food, but it must have been the smell of the burgers.

Everybody knew that anything off a grill was delicious.

So though she hadn't had much of an appetite since she'd come home, she sat down on that patio, and gobbled up two cheeseburgers . . . one right after another.

When she was wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she caught Aaron staring at her from across the glass table.

"What?" She mumbled around the potato chip she'd just popped into her mouth. He smiled.

"Nothing. Just glad to see your appetite is back."

It was almost like Emily of old was back again. That woman could put away food like nobody's business.

"Yeah, well," Emily shot him a sheepish smile, "food's good." Then her gaze shifted over to Dave sitting in the other chair.

"It is really good. Thanks for asking us to stay. I haven't been eating too much lately but," she patted her stomach, "I'm pretty well stuffed right now."

Rossi's lip quirked up.

"Well, that's a general service of the house."

Emily's mouth quivered.

"Aaron did mention that you were a bit of a pig."

Dave responded with a wink and an oink, before tossing a chip into his mouth. Unlike when they'd first shown up at his door, he was now being deliberately outrageous. Upstairs that had provoked a bit of laughter from her.

And he had a feeling this was a woman that could use a little more laughter in her life.

And seeing her cover her mouth to quiet a soft chuckle, he felt a bit of personal satisfaction. And admittedly a small tug of physical attraction as well.

But he knew that was a non-starter.

It was even clearer now than from when they'd arrived, that this one was very much taken. Hotch had been staring at her all through the meal. Though at least to his credit, or perhaps shame . . . he was still wearing that wedding ring . . . initially he'd tried to be subtle about it.

Now he wasn't even trying to be discreet.

And with a little food in them, and a little alcohol, they both seemed to have loosened up a bit. So Dave decided to try actual conversation. He asked about the Unit. Who was left there that he might know. Who was there now that he might hate.

Stuff like that.

So he tapped his patio keg of Guinness, passed out a frothy mug of beer to each, and they talked. They talked for hours. Almost three. Not really about anything personal though. And not really about their cases.

And certainly nothing about their abduction.

They were just stories about the office. The people that were working there now, the people that had left. The new space they were in.

They were still in the basement when Rossi had started.

He told them about the fight when he first made chief, to even get a dedicated conference room for the BAU. And when there was a momentary lull in the talking, he rubbed his hand across his face as he tried to think of anyone, or anything, that they'd missed. Then he asked if Strauss was still around.

And Emily choked on her ice tea.

He quickly leaned over to pat her back while Hotch passed her a napkin, and after a second she was breathing normally again. It was clear though . . . from the shared look between the other two . . . that Strauss was a stress point for them. And now Dave had to wonder what the hell that bitch had been up to recently. He made a mental to ask Aaron later. If she'd been giving them any problems, he could take care of that. He had enough on that woman to bury an elephant.

And just like an elephant . . . Dave tossed back his last swig of dry stout . . . he never forgot.

/*/*/*/*

Aaron got home a little before seven . . . his wife had been looking out the window since five. Even if he had been disappearing at all hours, he was usually home for dinner.

Not tonight though.

When he walked in, and saw her standing there by the front door, he said nothing besides a quiet, "hello."

His gaze had shifted away from hers before he'd finished saying the word.

She responded with a subdued. "Did you eat?"

He nodded silently. Then she watched from a few feet away as he dropped his keys onto the table by the front door. Finally he rolled his neck and rubbed his hand across his mouth.

For a moment she believed that he was actually going to say something else, perhaps apologize for not calling, or tell her where he had been . . . she was embarrassed at the tingle of anticipation that she felt at the thought of it . . . but then the moment was gone.

His eyes dropped straight down to the runner covering the hardwood floor.

And as she looked over at him very clearly not looking over at her, suddenly her gaze caught on a smear of brown'ish red lipstick visible on his pale blue shirt.

Three smears actually.

One on the collar, one on his chest . . . and one on his stomach. And suddenly she'd had enough of suffering in silence.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

Her words were soft . . . though filled with pain. She wanted this all to be over. She wanted to be able to leave.

But still she was afraid of the answer.

To his credit though . . . small credit . . . Aaron didn't even pretend to ask who the "her" was. And if the question caught him by surprise, he didn't show that either. Though he did lift his head, and that intense gaze of his . . . a gaze that for so many years had looked at her with love and lust in equal parts . . . locked onto hers. There was no love or lust there now.

Those things were long gone.

But for the first time in weeks . . . months . . . Haley knew that she had her husband's full and complete attention. His eyes were dark . . . almost black. But he didn't look angry, or insulted. Just . . . her own eyes started to burn . . . sad.

So very sad.

That scared her more than his previous flashes of temper ever had.

And then he shook his head slowly.

"No, no I am not sleeping with her. And I know that you and I need to talk, but I'm not ready to do that yet. I hope you can respect my wishes on that point. And I know that I'm asking for a favor," he bit his lip, "and perhaps you feel that I've used up my quota of favors with you, which perhaps would not be an unfair assessment, but I'm still asking none the less."

And then he turned . . . and walked away.

Limped away actually.

Haley stared after him, feeling her usual pain, and confusion, watching the drag to her husband's step as he began to climb the stairs. And she wondered what it was that he'd been doing all day. Wondered why his limp was so pronounced tonight when it had been weeks since he'd noticeably favored his steps. And she wanted to ask him what had happened, if he'd hurt himself. Because she did care . . . but she was still afraid to ask the question.

Afraid that he wouldn't answer her.

That such a simple . . . wifely . . . inquiry, would be viewed as an intrusion. A violation of this favor he had just made of her. A favor that she had no choice but to oblige.

At least for now.

So instead of asking her question, one question was enough for today, she turned away.

She walked back into the dining room.

The hovering tears began to prick her eyes as she looked over the plate of cold food that she'd left sitting by his usual place at the table. But it wasn't really his 'usual' place any longer, she reminded herself. It was his former place.

It was where he _used_ to sit.

It was an empty chair now. Empty chair, empty bed . . . empty marriage.

Empty life.

Though she had a feeling . . . based on Aaron's willingness to at least finally acknowledge that emptiness that now surrounded them . . . that the clock had begun to tick. D day would be coming. It might not be time to start packing her bags yet, but it was probably time to at least start dividing up the boxes in the attic, and cleaning out the closets that they shared.

She'd begin tomorrow.

* * *

_A/N 2: Somebody mentioned looking forward to hearing more from Haley's POV here, which surprisingly, (surprising in the sense that my brain doesn't usually just 'create' something because somebody asks. If that was the case you'd all have a daily update on every one of your personal favorite stories :)) resulted in my fingers whipping up this tag to close the chapter. Originally the chapter was supposed to just be them with Rossi, then them alone post Rossi agreeing to come back. But then things moved into lunch and talking, and their day was spent at his house, so Hotch got home late. Which was the point where it became more intriguing to pull Haley into it. Him sitting around eating burgers and drinking beer, while she's staring out the window wondering why he's late for dinner, and knowing that he won't appreciate her calling to ask. It's kind of a Debbie Downer way to close things up, but, it's kind of a Debbie Downer story. _

_And minor trivia note. Anybody who is familiar with Dave's library, knows that his ferns played a key plot point in Making Spirits Bright. They were half dead in that story, but as it's 6 months earlier here, they're still fresh from the flower shop :)_

_Thanks for reading everybody!_


	7. Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:** Picking up a little over a week after they visited Dave. It starts with their first day back, but the chapter covers almost another week.

And just as a mile marker, this is now late July. Was flipping through "Reason" and then the preemptive chapters in Girl, and I couldn't see that I'd ever particularly tagged the month. But in my mind I had the Girl chapter in May, them leaving for the parole hearing about week later, in early June. So this story started between the second and third weeks in July, and again, now jumping ahead about a week. And the only reason I'm mentioning all this now, is not because I'm a nutjob, but because I was trying to decide what the weather was like when Emily was getting dressed :)

* * *

_**Thursday**_

**Scar Tissue**

Emily stood naked, staring into the full length mirror affixed to the inside of her bedroom closet door.

She was looking at her scars . . . the new ones, those that were still pink . . . and her bruises. The palette for the latter had mostly morphed to shades of brown with the occasional tint of yellow.

Her body was healing.

On the outside anyway.

But she wondered if it had healed enough. Enough for her to go back to work. Because that's what she was supposed to be doing on this bright and sunny summer morning. Slip into her black suit . . . and all the rest of her Agent Prentiss armor . . . and go back out into a world that had torn her flesh apart mere weeks ago. And she wasn't sure if she was ready to take that step.

If it wasn't still too soon to even try.

The Bureau's written decision on her return had stated 'light duty' to start. Which meant no field work, and no more than six hour days for the first full week . . . but it still seemed like a lot of pressure. Because there was so very much that could go wrong. What if she choked up looking at a case file? Or started crying over an autopsy report? Or God help her, went off and started screaming at somebody on the elevator? Somebody who had just stepped on her foot.

What then?

Everything, all of the progress that she'd made so far, it would all have been for nothing. She'd be back at the beginning. Worse even. All of her pain, all of her scars . . . all of her PRIVATE business . . . it would be laid bare for others to see. Of all the things that she was struggling to get beyond, and make right, that was the ONE thing that she wasn't sure that she could come back from.

Public humiliation.

Her dignity was all that she had left.

So perhaps it would be better for her to wait. Maybe she could start back next week . . . her fingertips ghosted over a still dark bruise on her lower back . . . or maybe the week after that. Maybe then she'd be ready.

The thought had no sooner come to her, than she was pushing it right back out of her brain.

No . . . she winced and her eyes fell shut . . . no, she couldn't do that. She couldn't push off her return, because her return was linked with Aaron's return. They were doing this together. And HE was going back today, that was a definite. He had a unit to run, and he was going to need her there with him. Even if it was just for moral support.

That was a definite too.

Shit.

Okay . . . she sucked in a deep breath . . . six hours. That's all she had to get through, a six hour day. And at least one of those hours would probably be spent filling out forms down in HR, so that would bring her down to a five hour day. And then maybe forty minutes for lunch, so . . . she bit her lip . . . that just left like four hours really. And four hours was nothing. It was a Lord of the Rings movie. A Godfather director's cut. It was nothing . . . her hands clenched . . . a breeze. The time would fly right by before she even knew it. Right?

Her eyes fell shut again.

_Christ help me._

/*/*/*/*/*

On the drive to work, Emily was nervous and quiet . . . Hotch couldn't stop talking. That was a switch. But he seemed to either be running on an excess of adrenaline, or an excess of caffeine, either way though, he was clearly wired.

He kept running down their day.

He had everything planned out, almost to the minute, of what he wanted to get done, of who he specifically wanted them to see . . . of who he specifically wanted them to avoid. And he just wanted her to know that he had this plan. And as long as they stuck to this plan, that everything was going to be fine.

Just fine.

And though part of her wanted to make him pull over to the side of the road so she could shake him silly . . . they both knew how quickly, and devastatingly, plans could fall apart . . . she let it be. If this was what he needed to walk back into that building with some myth of control, then she would be supportive. Or at least not take the wind out of his sails. Whatever got him through the first day.

And all the days after that.

So she nodded to his statements, and occasionally murmured an "okay, sounds good" when he raised a point that sounded vaguely inquisitive, but mostly she just stared out the side window, watching the morning sunlight glinting off the curves of the passing cars. Her eyes felt gritty, and her hands were balled into tights fists in her lap.

The ride took forever.

/*/*/*/*/*

It wasn't until the following Tuesday that Emily had a total breakdown at work. It took her completely by surprise. No . . . she bit her lip . . . no, that was a lie.

The surprise was that she'd lasted as long as she did.

In her defense though, up to that point . . . the point where her control began to unravel . . . the return hadn't (outwardly) been going too badly. That first morning they'd walked back through the glass doors to almost no fanfare. That was one check in the pro column of working in a unit like theirs . . . everybody was trained in trauma counseling.

So everybody kept their distance.

All of the little half waves, the polite head nods, the tiny supportive smiles . . . they was tolerable. And on some level Emily had also felt some relief in knowing that neither she nor Hotch were being treated as pariahs. Because if anyone thought that their actions up on that mountain had been "monstrous" . . . as for instance, she herself did . . . then they'd hid it well.

Better than her at least.

The only people who actually approached them that first day, and or spoke to them directly for more than a casual greeting, were the younger members of the team. Gentle hugs for Emily, light claps on the back for Hotch.

Again, it had all been very tolerable.

At least from Emily's point of view. Granted, she wasn't really into the whole 'touching' thing right now . . . she was more into the 'put a fist through somebody's throat' thing right now . . . but her team was her family. And she did love them, still. So she'd be damned if she let this little bout of ATD, damage her long term relationships with them. She'd lost enough already.

She didn't want to lose them too.

So she'd suffered through the hugging with what she'd hoped wasn't a scary smile. And nobody ran from her desk, screaming in terror, so she figured she did okay faking it.

Happiness that is.

Because that of course was what she was faking. Happiness was what had been eluding her since that day in the woods. Happiness, contentment . . . sanity.

Things other people took for granted.

Not that she had been in any way 'displeased' to see her friends, but it had been almost five (very deliberate) weeks, since she'd last seen anyone from work besides Hotch. And she could have easily gone another five weeks without batting an eye. But by the time she walked back through those glass doors, she had accepted that it was time to start reengaging.

Or at least accepted that it was time to see if she still _could_ reengage.

The jury was still out on that one. But, all horrific events considered, she'd felt that she'd done pretty well on the 'interaction' front. Her social skills might have been fairly rusty, but they hadn't yet become completely non-existent. And again, mostly the others had kept their hands to themselves.

Thank God for that.

So basically things had gone okay'ish on day one. That was the hardest day. Just getting used to being around people again was difficult. Not that she and Hotch had been hiding away in a closet . . . they'd had their therapy, and those regular walks around the city . . . but work was different. Work was personal. She _knew_ these people.

And they knew her.

And unlike the prior five weeks of dealing with strangers, people who didn't give a shit about her or her problems, Emily had walked back into the BAU knowing that THOSE people were watching her. Watching for the little cracks and tremors, and tiny quirks. Those little things . . . the tells . . . that would just prove to them what they had to already know.

That she was still broken.

And she hadn't much cared for the idea of being on display. Like she had a countdown clock on her, and everybody was just waiting for the "KABOOM!" So again, just adjusting to those eyes had been difficult.

But there was no kaboom.

And then the first day ended . . . and Hotch took her home.

They made it.

Thursday was much of the same, and Friday too. No more hugs by Friday . . . thank God . . . but still they were getting the knowing looks and the supportive smiles. And by Friday those were starting to chafe. Seriously. She felt like a mental patient. Somebody that had just gotten her day pass and was wandering out in the world, the little plastic badge pinned to her chest.

_Crazy Person Here! Keep Your Distance!_

Hotch had told her that she was being too sensitive. That the others were just trying to be nice. His words would have made more of an impact if he'd kept eye contact when he'd said them. But he hadn't. So she was pretty sure that he had just been bullshitting a response. Not just for her though.

For himself too.

Because she had seen that he was also getting those little looks . . . and she had seen that they were also starting to wear on him. Just because he hadn't admitted that to her, or perhaps even to himself, didn't mean that he was doing any better than she was.

Treading water was their way of life.

And of the two of them, Aaron was definitely under a hell of a lot more pressure over the situation in the office. And that was because Gideon had only given him a week's notice . . . and Rossi hadn't started yet . . . so Hotch had walked back in the door trying to immediately get back up to speed on a thousand different things that he used to be able to keep straight, without so much as a blink of an eye. But those days had passed. He'd been struggling, and she'd been worried.

She still was.

But one point on the plus side . . . for both of them . . . was that each day that passed, that was one more day under their belts. One more day to "adjust" to how things were now. And make no mistake, everything was different. There was no way around that.

They were different people.

So they were re-learning their way through the old routines. The paperwork, the meetings . . . the trips to the range, and the gym. And then there were the new routines . . . though they really weren't all that new anymore. And those would be the physical therapy, the talking therapy . . . the joint therapy.

All of the therapies were still painful.

But still, somehow, she'd gotten through those first few days, with nary the occasional sobbing herself to sleep. But hey, a girl had to have some kind of release.

And crying at home kept her from crying at work.

Or at least it had been.

But now it was week two, day three. And not five minutes ago her control had suddenly . . . and horrifically . . . begun to unravel. She'd been sitting quietly at her desk, reviewing the newest stack of files that had been left for her. All new consult requests. All new stacks of neatly packaged, high glossy horrors, taking place around the country.

Where to begin?

Well, that had been her biggest stress point every day since she'd returned. Which file should she pick up first? Each time she made that choice, she'd felt a surge of panic that that file would be the one that would break her. So today she'd done what she'd been doing since she'd returned . . . she'd stared at the little stack of manila files for almost a minute, gauging the thickness of each, hedging bets.

Sending up prayers.

And then she began. A deep breath, and a folder grabbed at random. One, two, three . . . she snapped back the cover . . . go.

That had been working so far.

It had been working today too, she'd begun her reviews just a little over two hours ago. And basically things had been going okay . . . or, well enough . . . until she'd picked up the folder she was currently staring down at with her mouth agape. There was a picture in front of her. A crime scene photo. A horrific, crime scene photo.

The woman's eyes had been sewn shut.

It might as well have been a freaking snapshot taken from her last 'wake up screaming at three am' nightmare. And at the moment it was BEYOND Emily as to why the freaking hell JJ would have ever given her THIS case file without any God damn notice . . . seriously what the actual FUCK(!?) . . . but here it was, right on her desk. Sitting there in all of its technical horror.

She wanted to throw up.

Her eyes were burning and then her hands started to shake . . . she slipped them under her desk. But that didn't stop it, the attack was hitting like a freight train. Now her breathing was getting erratic, and her heart had begun to race.

_Oh God! The physical manifestations were going to give her away, she thought with wave of panic, they were all going to see!_

_Crazy person in the house!_

And she was desperately searching for some way to get OUT of there! To somehow stand, and walk up the stairs to Hotch's office, without looking like a completely spastic LUNATIC!

It didn't help that she FELT like a completely spastic lunatic. Hence her drawing a complete blank on a means of escape from her DESK of all places! But it was like she was stuck in quicksand.

And she was just about to DROWN!

Just then . . . just as the shakes started to travel their way up her body . . . Emily felt someone's eyes on her.

Her own eyes snapped up to see Rossi . . . he was looking down from the catwalk. He'd just started back the day before, and given that she'd already had her big 'bonding' experience with him like ten days ago, all they did when he'd come through with Hotch, was exchange a quick wave.

But now she could see that he was staring at her . . . and then she saw his eyes widen. He seemed to realize what was happening. The tears started to pool.

That she was on the verge of going nuclear.

To his credit, and her everlasting gratitude, he didn't make a fool of her. He didn't yell over the railing and ask if she was okay, he just quietly worked his way over and down the stairs.

Her watery gaze dropped back down to her desk. Back to that God damn picture.

Her unraveling.

But then she felt Rossi's hand on her shoulder and he was muttering some nonsense about needing help figuring out the new database, and did she mind giving him a hand.

Somehow she found herself murmuring a non-committal, "mmm, hmm," even as he subtly moved her chair back with his foot.

And then she was standing, and he was guiding . . . and then she was at the top of the stairs.

Her eyes locked onto Hotch's closed door . . . shit, she'd forgotten that he had a meeting with Gideon(!) . . . while Rossi kept her moving smoothly along the upper walkway and down the little hall. He'd be taking Gideon's office, but Gideon wasn't leaving until Friday.

It was only Wednesday.

He walked her into the conference room . . . and she doubled over, sucking wind. Then she heard the door shut, and she could feel Rossi's hand again pressed on her back.

"Just breathe kid," he whispered. "It'll pass."

And a few minutes . . . a half dozen tears, a few thousand erratic heartbeats, and a few million panting breaths, later . . . it did. Slowly, she came back first to herself.

And then to a fully vertical position.

Rossi's hand finally fell away . . . he hadn't left her side the whole time.

She looked up at him then, her face flushed, her eyes watering, her whole essence reeking of shame and humiliation. But then Dave Rossi, this curious man that she hardly knew, he didn't make her feel like a fool for breaking down. He just gave her a sad smile.

"I once had one while I was having sex with my wife. My first wife. I suddenly noticed that her hair was the same shade of cornflower yellow as the girl we'd dug out of a dumpster three days before. I jumped out of bed like my dick was on fire. Now _that_," he rolled his eyes, "was embarrassing. This was nothing. Nobody else knows," he gave her a hard look, "and nobody else is _going_ to know. Not from me. So," he turned to lean across the table, "here," he turned back to hand her his water bottle.

"Sorry, I did take a drink out of it, but I promise I have no diseases."

Emily stared down at the drink for a moment before another of her pooling tears spilled over. It dripped off her cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured back, her eyes snapping back up to his, "thank you very much. You um, well," she simultaneously cleared her throat and reached out to take the bottle. "I didn't know what I was going to do."

Rossi shrugged dismissively.

"No thanks needed. I just happened to be there. And honestly, and I know you don't want it to happen, but having a panic attack in the middle of the bullpen wouldn't have been the end of the world. It wouldn't have even been the end of your career. It would have just been a bad day. But really," he reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder, "just think how bad your days have been recently. Nothing that's going to happen to you in here, is _ever_ going to compare with what happened to you out there. You get what I'm saying?"

For a second, she stared up at him, another tear slowly trickling down her skin. And then she blinked, and nodded.

"Yeah," she swallowed and wiped the back of her hand across her face, "yeah, I think I do. But I still don't want to, you know . . ."

And she trailed off.

But he stepped right in again.

"I get ya kid, and I also get that you and Aaron are private people, and you don't want the rest of the world to know any of your business. And to that I say, fuck 'em. Fuck the whole damn lot of them. Fuck your friends, your family," his lip quirked up, "me. Who cares what any of us thinks, really? It's your life, the rest of us are just set pieces. So," he patted her shoulder, "you think about that. And I'm going to go see if Aaron's free now, because we both know damn well that you'd rather be talking to him right now than me."

Emily cleared her throat.

"Thanks Ros . . . Dave," she tipped her head, "thank you, really."

There was no way she was going to be able to repay him for what he'd done.

Dave winked.

"Hey, I'm just glad it wasn't me. It's been a long time since I've seen the wicked witch. Walking into Strauss' office yesterday I could have easily had a flashback myself."

Seeing Emily's red rimmed eyes crinkle slightly, Dave knew that his job there was done. Best to get out now before he fucked it up. So he gave her one last smile, and turned away.

He slipped out the side door without another word.

Emily stared after Dave for a moment. Then she blinked and sniffled and set about pulling herself back together.

At least the best that could under the circumstances.

Basically all she did was spill a little of the bottled water into her hand and splash it onto her face. That didn't do much of course besides rinse away the salination, aka make her a little less 'sticky.' Otherwise she still felt like complete shit.

She just wanted to get out of there.

Though she did allow that Rossi had made some valid points on perspective . . . basically in her need to get some. But those were points that she would much rather be pondering at home, curled up on her couch with a bottle of whiskey.

And hopefully Hotch.

God she would happily go out and humiliate herself again, if she could just get a hug from him right then!

And while she anxiously waited for him to come find her . . . she knew that Dave would get him out of his office . . . she gulped down the rest of the water. Then she went over and turned off the overhead light. It was hurting her eyes.

Or maybe it was just her brain that hurt.

Either way she moved over to the side of the room . . . far away from the sunbeams cutting through the slats of the closed blinds . . . and stooped down to her knees. There she braced her back against the wall.

Then she closed her eyes.

A few minutes later, she heard the doorknob turning, but before she could panic . . . there was Aaron's voice.

"Emily," he whispered, "are you in here?"

_Thank God!_

"Here," she called out softly, swallowing the lump in her throat, "in the corner, on the floor."

Hotch slipped through the door, and quickly closed it behind him. After he'd turned the lock, he took four quick strides across the small room.

"Are you okay? Rossi told me that I needed to come see you."

Hotch's words were a soft murmur as he stooped down in front of Emily, his fingers dangling just above her left knee.

Though it was obvious that something had happened to upset her . . . and seeing that she was upset immediately gave him the urge to pull her into his arms . . . but it was _absolutely_ not the place for it.

He needed to keep his hands to himself.

"It was a frigging case file," she croaked back, trying to keep the strain out of her voice, "but I don't want to talk about it right now. I just want to go home."

"Okay," he immediately soothed back, "we can leave. It's after two now and I don't have any more meetings today."

Hell, he'd have been happy to have gone home around hour two that morning . . . that was the point where he'd actually counted the stacks of unread files still piled around his desk . . . but he'd stayed because throwing in the towel that early in the day would have been pathetic.

But hour five . . . he reached down to help Emily up . . . that sounded just about right. And with that he tugged on her hand . . . and they both came back up to their feet.

Even in shadows Hotch could see that Emily's eyes were still down on the faded carpet . . . her body was barely an inch away from his. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his jaw.

It made his pulse quicken.

But when she leaned forward to put her arms around him . . . he stepped back, dropping her fingers in the process.

It actually hurt him to do it. To move away. But a locked door and a dark room looked bad enough on their own. He didn't need to add anything to an incident report that would actual count as an "incident." As long as they were on duty . . . and most especially onsite at Quantico . . . their physical interactions had to be FAR above reproach. Strauss was still looking for any excuse.

And Christ knew that they couldn't get separated now!

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his stomach twisting when he saw the flash of pain on her face just as her arms come up to wrap around her chest, "but we can't, not in here. I'll give you a hug as soon as we're off base, okay?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he could see that he'd just colossally compounded the cluster he'd created. Emily's jaw had tightened. And despite the words he'd just spoken, he found himself reaching out to touch her cheek.

To make a connection again.

But just as he touched her skin, she jerked her head back like she'd been burned. His heart clenched.

"Emily, I'm . . ."

But she didn't want to hear it. Her watery eyes shifted towards the door as she cut him off.

"Let's just go."

* * *

_A/N 2: If you're reading The Arrangement, you might notice the gender flip in the relationship breakdown. It's always kind of interesting (to me) when things come together like that. With some ying and yang because at any given time I'm poking away on a half dozen things, and then suddenly the two back to back items that wrap, will end up balancing each other out in some weird way._

_So now Hotch is most definitely in the doghouse. But I do have a good chunk of the next chapter written so it won't be too long before you find out if he gets himself out of it in the short term._

_And if you're wondering about The Hours, as so many people have inquired, I have not at all dropped it or deliberately backburnered. I just honestly do NOT like the chapter I have and am thinking about just scrapping and starting a brand new one. Hoping to get to that this weekend. At least the draft if not the posting :)_

_Otherwise, thanks for the feedback!_


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